


Rise Again

by ButterflyGhost, Ride_Forever



Series: due South Reincarnation'verse [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Reincarnation, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/pseuds/Ride_Forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within the context of the historical murder of William of Norwich in 1144, and the ensuing blood libel, two souls who will later be reborn as Benton Fraser and Ray Kowalski find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise Again

**Author's Note:**

> **Ride's AN :** TYK to April-Joy for alpha of early draft and to old_grognard for beta of later draft. TYK to the awesome mods of this Big Bang. With great fondness for the town of Coltishall-Near-Norwich, England, where I lived while we got this fic started and a depth of feeling that goes beyond words for my co-writer ButterflyGhost.
> 
>  **ButterflyGhost's AN :** With thanks to the Anglican Cathedral Library for background information on the historical period, and to wikipedia for this map. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Map_of_medieval_Norwich_(c1144).jpg
> 
> The Latin poetry that Benoni recites is from the Latin Vulgate translation of "Song of Songs". The poetry that Reynard speaks in Benoni's dream is from the Anglo Saxon, "The Wife's Lament." 
> 
> And Ride - it goes without saying, this would be nothing without you. Thank you so much for everything. 
> 
>  
> 
> ==========================================================================

 

**_Thorpe Wood_ **

**_Norwich, England_ **

**_2nd of March, 1144_ **

**_Easter Sunday_ **

 

The early dawn light shifted through the trees, illuminating the path before the Sister. The nun was walking with her head down, carrying a basket of cooked meats and counting her prayers. She saw the thing from the corner of her eye, and for a moment paid it no mind. Something dead and bloody – dead animals were not an uncommon sight in the woods.

 

Then she realised. Not animal – child. Her prayers stopped as she stared at the half-naked body. Bloody, fish belly-white. Bloody.

 

For a moment she thought she should turn back and report it, but it was Easter Sunday, and she was already late. The Reverend Mother would be angry if she didn’t bring the breakfast meats on such an important day. The Sister turned her head away from the body, resuming her prayers, and hurried on. The sun was increasingly bright, and the birds were singing. The sound of the nun’s footfall, crunching through the leaves, faded, and the little corpse was warmed by the rising sun. It was a beautiful day.

~*~

 

The bells had been ringing since daybreak, and though it was still morning the streets were already full of drunken revellers as the faithful broke their Lenten fast. Reynard had come on shift when it was still dark, and had already had to break up two fights. When the forester approached him, his first thought was that the man was drunk – he was pale and shaking.

 

 _Not drunk,_ Reynard realised, with surprise. _Frightened._ Henry of Sprowston was a tall man, lean and muscular from his labour. Reynard had known him since childhood – the forester was a friend of his father’s – and he knew the man to be fearless. To work in the woods he had to be. He would have made a good soldier, but was a Saxon patriot. Since Reynard had started working for the military he had been ostracised by his family – Henry looked down on the likes of Reynard. It was unusual for the man to approach him at all, and unusual for him to show fear. Right now the man was tense, all traces of his normal contemptuous attitude gone.

 

“Rey,” he said, “I need to see the Sheriff. I’ve found a … a body in the woods.”

 

Reynard looked at him quizzically. It wasn’t the first time someone had died in the woods. Usually it was exposure. This body must be different somehow for Henry to be so affected.

 

“What sort of body?”

 

“A … child. A boy-child.”

 

 _Ah,_ Reynard thought, _that explains it_. Henry was childless, his wife having died in labour. Sympathetically Reynard put his hand on the man’s arm. Henry shrugged it off, as though suddenly remembering that Reynard was a traitor to the Saxon cause. Reynard felt a little flinch in his heart. When he’d been growing up this man had been like an uncle to him – he shrugged off the memory. That would lead him to the last time he spoke with his father, and that would lead him to…

 

 _Stop that,_ he told himself sternly. _You have a job to do._

 

“I’ll take you to the Sheriff,” Reynard said, and turned toward the Castle.

 

Henry paused for a moment before following. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. Reynard blinked, and said nothing. There was a little lump in his throat, but he kept on walking.

~*~

 

The Sheriff of Norwich, William de Chesney, looked up wearily from a map showing disputed farmland boundaries as Henry was brought before him. His heavy-jowled face sagged with exhaustion – he had been preparing his men for the excesses of the season and had not slept well for some nights. Reynard liked the man – respected him – but knew that today was not a good day to spring surprises on him. No help for it.

 

“Sir,” he said, standing smartly to attention. “The Forester has reported a body in the woods.”

 

De Chesney gave Reynard a dirty look. “What is it now?” he asked, and leaned back into his chair. Henry stared at the ground, as though unsure if he was being addressed. He moved his mouth, but no sound came out. He was obviously overwhelmed at being addressed by a Norman of de Chesney’s rank. “Well?” De Chesney folded his arms across his broad chest. He spoke in heavily accented Anglo-Saxon. “And you would be the Forester.” He looked at Henry critically, as though it was his fault he’d stumbled upon a corpse in the woods. “Name?”

 

“Henry from Sprowston,” Henry said, adding, redundantly, “Forester.”

 

De Chesney nodded brusquely. “So, you found a body?”

 

“Yes, Sir, in the woods.”

 

“What kind of body?”

 

“A dead body, Sir,” the man stuttered.

 

De Chesney rolled his eyes. “As they so often are,” he said dryly. “Male? Female? Wounded or dead by natural causes?”

 

“A child,” Henry managed. “A boy.”

 

“Dark or blond?” de Chesney asked. It was an important question – the colouring would most likely identify the child’s background as Norman or Saxon.

 

“Blond,” Henry said, and his face went sour. “One of us.”

 

De Chesney sighed again, correctly reading Henry’s attitude. “I promise you, Forester, that I take the death of a Saxon as seriously as that of a Norman. But the question had to be asked.” He shifted his bulk on his seat, and leant forward on his elbows. “I assume that the death was a murder, or you wouldn’t have come to me.”

 

“It looks like murder,” Henry said, looking at his feet. He curled his toes into the straw, still obviously uncomfortable. “It didn’t look like something a wolf would do.”

 

“Wolves rarely hunt humans,” de Chesney pointed out, “even in winter. And when they do, they don’t leave much behind. Describe the body.”

 

“He was – it was –” Henry flushed, brick red. “He was wearing a jacket and shoes.”

 

De Chesney’s face went stiff, and Reynard flinched.

 

“You mean,” de Chesney said, “that the boy was half naked?”

 

“Yes,” Henry said. He swallowed. “Eight or ten years old, and half….”

 

De Chesney stood, and gave Reynard a grave look. “Soldier,” he said. “I want you to investigate this immediately. Forester, lead my man back to the body, and give him all assistance.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Henry said, almost as though he were a soldier himself. The Sherriff had that effect on people, Reynard thought, as he inclined his head in a bow toward his superior.

 

“Sir,” he said.

 

“Report back with all speed,” the Sherriff ordered. Henry looked surprised – Reynard realised that the man really hadn’t expected the death to be taken seriously.

 

“Yes, Sir.” Reynard bowed again, and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. This time the tall man did not shrug him off, but looked at Reynard uncertainly. “Let’s go,” Reynard said, gently, nodding his head toward the exit. Henry nodded back, then turned, shoulders hunched. Reynard followed.

~*~

 

The green and brown of the forest floor was broken by a grey sheet of poorly tanned leather, held down with boulders. Henry was talking to Reynard easily now, as though they had never fallen out. “I had to cover him,” the man said. “I couldn’t leave him out like that….”

 

Reynard nodded his understanding, although privately he wished the body had been undisturbed. He hoped there were some signs left as to what had happened – but at least the corpse was still there. If it had been later in the day, particularly toward dusk, there would have been a risk that animals might have dragged the body off.

 

Steeling himself against the unpleasant task, he knelt, removed the stones, and drew back the leather sheet.

 

“S’wounds,” he swore, and sat back on his haunches. He passed a shaking hand across his brow. He had seen bodies before – he was a soldier after all. But even despite Henry’s reaction, he hadn’t been expecting…this.

 

The body was, as Henry had warned him, half-naked. The boy’s body was hairless, and his member small. There was blood between his legs, like that of a menstruating woman, and there were bruises on his throat.

 

Henry was right. No animal had done this. Although some small creature had made a start on the boy’s fingers, the injuries were post mortem. Rey was enough a soldier to recognise the difference between man-made wounds and animal predation.

 

“Definitely Saxon,” Reynard said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. The boy’s hair was shoulder length, and blond as flax. Reynard swallowed. “I can’t tell what age he is.” He looked up at Henry, whose head was turned away from the scene. “There’s discolouration on what’s left of his fingers.” He swallowed down a bubble of nausea. “Maybe he was apprenticed as a tanner or a dyer. In which case he would be at least ten.”

 

“He looks younger,” Henry said tonelessly.

 

“Yes,” Reynard agreed. “So – possibly from a poor family. Underfed. A lot of brothers and sisters.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I wonder if his family even knows he’s gone yet.”

 

“If he’s an apprentice his Master will know he is gone.”

 

Reynard ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up into spikes. “Unless it’s the Master who did this.”

 

“So, it is a murder?” Henry sounded miserable.

 

Reynard looked up, equally miserable. “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid it is.”

~*~

 

De Chesney looked tired. Reynard stood to attention, awaiting further orders.

 

“So far,” de Chesney said, “nobody has reported a missing child. I’ve sent out soldiers to poll the local population, and if he is local I imagine we’ll hear within the next few days. But we can’t leave the body out.” He sighed. “I’ll send you back to bury the body. If someone claims it, we’ll disinter it and give it a proper burial later.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Reynard had been expecting to have to bury the body, but he still felt a sense of defeat. Whoever the child was, he deserved a proper funeral, and the idea of burying him, even temporarily, in the heart of Thorpe Wood was disturbing. By the time his family missed him, assuming they ever did, the body could be decomposed and unidentifiable. Reynard repressed a shudder.

 

“Dismissed,” de Chesney said. Reynard bowed, and left the Hall.

~*~

 

Benoni was digging in his garden when the Saxon came over the hill. He looked up in surprise at the silhouette, crowned with gold against the sunlight. He hadn’t been expecting guests. He straightened, and wiped the back of his arm across his brow. He was sweating, and stripped to the waist, despite the spring weather, and suddenly realised that he was working on the holiest Sabbath of the year. He dropped the spade, and hurried to cover himself before the man came clearly into view.

 

He was tall – as tall as Benoni himself, and wiry-limbed. He managed the descent of the hill gracefully, not falling into a scramble as so many did, but skipping down between the tree roots like a dancer. As he came into clearer focus Benoni could see his face – clean-shaven like a Norman’s, though stubbled, like a man who wasn’t used to the blade. It was when Benoni saw his eyes though that something happened … a catch in his throat. _I know you,_ he nearly said. He’d seen those eyes before. Dark brown, or blue, or hazel – he’d seen those eyes a thousand times. He shook his head at the dizzying notion, and stared at the man. Blue eyes, and a sweet mouth that, embarrassingly, Benoni wanted to kiss.

 

Why did the Saxon seem so familiar? He’d never have forgotten a man like this.

 

The Saxon seemed equally confused, and bit his lower lip for a moment. Then his face broke out in a smile, as though they were old friends.

 

“You must be the Hermit,” he said. “I’m, uh, I’m Reynard.”

 

“Benoni.”

 

“That’s a funny name,” Reynard said.

 

“It means ‘Son of my Sorrow,’” Benoni said, cursing himself internally at his tendency to over-explain everything. It was one of the reasons he chose to live alone – he annoyed people with his penchant for literalism and completism. Nobody was interested in his personal history. He couldn’t stop himself on this occasion though – he was still nervous in the presence of this long-limbed, slender stranger. _Oh dear Lord,_ Benoni thought, _stop blithering._ “My mother died in labour, and my father named me for her.” _Stop now,_ he told himself sternly. Mercifully he stopped before he could explain how he first came to Norwich at the age of six as a foundling to the church and….

 

Nobody was interested in his stories.

 

This Saxon – Reynard – seemed interested though. “S’blood,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can’t call you that, it’s too sad a name. Can I call you Ben?”

 

Benoni smiled, a sensation of delight tugging at his chest. Nobody had ever called him Ben before, though his brother had called him Benny. “Yes,” he told Reynard, and with sudden daring added, “no one has called me Ben before. And may I call you Rey?”

 

The Saxon smiled back, then looked shy. “That would be … yes. You can call me Rey.”

 

Benoni rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, and cleared his throat. “Although,” he added, “I suppose you didn’t come this way just so we could learn each other’s names.”

 

“Uh … no.” The Saxon cricked his neck. “No. I uh … well, I came about a murder in the woods. Wondered if you’d seen anything odd, or if you could help us in some way to find out what happened. You might have seen something, living close by.”

 

“Murder?” Benoni sighed. The world was such a cruel place. “Who was the victim?”

 

“A child,” Reynard said. “He looked like an apprentice. Uhm … he’d had his clothes removed and….” His voice trailed off and he looked suddenly sick. “Sorry, probably sounds stupid, me being a soldier, but I don’t do well with dead bodies. Like, I hate that. I _really_ hate that. I know it’s a part of life … but it’s the worst part.”

 

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” Benoni said. “There would be something amiss in you if the presence of death did not affect you.” He wiped his hands against his tunic, and stared at the freshly dug soil. “And the Church teaches that death arises from sin, while it says in Scripture that God has put eternity in the human heart and we die to rise again – death is not the end of everything.”

 

“You really believe that? All that Church stuff?”

 

“No,” Benoni laughed, startled at his own audacity. “Not all that Church stuff. Only that there is an Eternity waiting for us all, and in the knowledge that there’s something larger than ourselves, I find a certain peace.”

 

“Good. ’Cause I have to say I sort of don’t believe any of it,” Reynard said.

 

Benoni stared at the other man for a moment, wondering how they had fallen into this bizarre and dangerous conversation. Either one of them being overheard could be punished. How did they trust each other so easily?

 

“Well,” he said, “perhaps we should talk instead about the crime. How can I help you?”

~*~  

 

“This is where you found him?”

 

“Yes, just here. Where we, uhm … buried him.” Reynard was trying hard not to stare at Benoni as the man circled the grave. He’d heard a lot about him, of course – the guy was famous. He lived over the hill, and _no-one_ lived over the hill. Not only that, he lived in a clearing in the woods, and not even the Forester lived in the woods. Reynard shuddered, thinking of the things natural and supernatural that dwelt therein.

 

Benoni was crouching now, tilting his head to one side. His long hair ruffled slightly in the breeze, and Reynard swallowed. He hadn’t been sure what to expect – some wild lunatic probably. But this guy – though weird – wasn’t a lunatic. From his first glimpse of the Hermit sweating in the sun Reynard found himself fascinated by the man – lust? He had a really weird feeling that he should know him – love?

 

And Ben _\-- he’s letting me call him Ben! --_ wasn’t your typical hermit. Unlike the solitary monks and recluses Reynard had come across before, who lived like _wreccas_ and had forgotten the art of speech, this one was clean, shaved, hair trimmed at his shoulders, and he took care of his robe. It was carefully darned and patched. Somehow it looked good on him. Reynard flushed. He was at a crime scene -- he shouldn’t be thinking about how good some hermit looked in his robe -- or how good he looked without his robe. Reynard turned his head away and looked off through the trees, trying to banish the image of the hermit’s bare body as he toiled in his garden.

 

When he turned back to Benoni, the man was crawling on the ground, sniffing. Reynard stepped back, shocked. “What are you doing?”

 

“Smelling,” Benoni said. He shook his head. “Not much to go on, I’m afraid. Too many people have been here. It’s a pity I didn’t have a chance to see the body.”

 

“We’re checking hut to hut,” Reynard said. “Someone must be missing a child.”

 

Benoni nodded grimly, then sat back on his haunches. “Help may be coming,” he said, just as a grey wolf sauntered through the bushes.

 

“God in heaven!” Reynard froze in place, then drew his sword. Benoni put his arms around the Wolf’s neck, and the Wolf started licking his face. Reynard let his sword arm drop and stared at the scene, flabbergasted. “That’s a wolf,” he stuttered, “isn’t it?”

 

“ _He_ is,” corrected Benoni.

 

“Does he…” Reynard swallowed and stepped fractionally closer. “Does he have a name?”

 

Benoni looked at him with something like amusement. “He’s a wolf,” he pointed out. “He doesn’t have a name in the tongues of men.”

 

“What’s he doing here?”

 

Benoni looked at the animal, and started speaking in Latin. The Wolf yipped.

 

“He has come to offer his assistance,” Benoni said, and stood, giving the Wolf room. The Wolf padded round the grave, sniffing. Benoni addressed him again; the Wolf tossed his head, and started to lope down the earth road. Benoni stood, and started to jog after him. Reynard watched for a moment, still dazed, then started to run after them.

 

The Wolf stopped at the edge of the woods, quivering, as though he wanted to continue, but something was preventing him. _Mind you,_ thought Reynard, _if I was a wolf I wouldn’t want to go into Norwich either._ This animal was unusual in many ways. Not only did he seem to know Latin, he had come closer to human habitation than any wolf did, even in the heart of winter. The Wolf stood up on his back legs, and balanced on Benoni’s shoulders. Benoni ruffled his scruff, and murmured to him in low tones. The Wolf licked him again, almost like a master’s favourite hound rather than a wild animal, then dropped back down and vanished into the underbrush.

 

 _Maybe the Wolf is Ben’s Familiar …_ the thought should have made him uncomfortable, but didn’t.

 

Benoni turned to Reynard. “The body was carried from the outskirts of Norwich, though my friend daren’t go any further.”

 

“So, we know that the boy wasn’t killed by a stranger. It’s a start.”

 

Reynard gave a tight, miserable nod. “It’s a start.”

 

“So….” Benoni looked lost. “What now?”

 

“Well, now I have to go back to my captain, and we report to the Sheriff. I … uhm … I’ll say you tracked through the woods but I won’t mention the … you know … the Wolf.”

 

“Thank you,” Benoni said, and rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. He cleared his throat. “Will you come again, let me know what’s happening?” He flushed.

 

“I’m sure I will.” Reynard felt a surge of relief. Benoni seemed to want his company – what that meant he didn’t know, but – “yes, I’ll come and tell you how the investigation is going.”

 

“Thank you.” Benoni smiled, and Reynard’s heart stuttered. God in heaven, he had thought the man was beautiful before. What a smile….

 

“I’ll … uhm … I’ll come by tomorrow.” Reynard scratched the back of his neck. “Got to go now….” He jerked his head toward the houses. “Report….”

 

“Understood.” Benoni stepped toward him for a moment, then stepped back, flushing even deeper, looking confused. For a moment, Reynard had thought the man was going to kiss him. _Get out of here,_ he thought, _before you make a fool of yourself._ He lifted a hand in abrupt farewell, and started toward the city. He looked back for a moment, and there was Benoni, watching him, eyes intent and beautiful as the Wolf’s.

~*~

 

The Castle was set on a hill in the centre of the city, overlooking the huddle of Saxon settlements. In order to build the Castle, the Normans had driven people from their homes and levelled the houses to the ground. It was decades ago, but people still remembered the failed uprisings, the forced labour to dig the moat and put up the walls of the Bailey. The building was a stark reminder of just who was in charge of Norwich now – the son of William the Bastard. Not that the Bastard’s son was there now. He was in London, enjoying the Pascal season with the other members of the Court.

 

At this moment the Great Hall of the Castle was full of Saxons – far more so than usual, and everyone was shouting. Reynard pushed through the throng, trying to ignore the looks of contempt as he passed. The word ‘traitor’ was muttered by more than one person as he passed. He looked through the crowd to see if his father was there – he wasn’t. Even if he had been, his father would have ignored him. The last time they had spoken his father had told him, ‘I have no son.’

 

“Why are there so many people here?” he asked when he finally got through the press to the rank of soldiers standing in front of the Sheriff’s table. Antoine Fitz William, chief of ten, looked at him dismissively, then snorted and looked away. The Saxon soldiers were generally considered lowest of the low by their Norman counterparts, even when they were the same rank. Antoine was a particularly nasty example of the type. Reynard bridled, as usual, and swallowed down the insult that wanted to burst from his lips.

 

“There’s something brewing,” one of the other Normans told him. Hugo de Gascoigne was alright – a member of Reynard’s own unit, and a buffer against some of the cruder ‘jokes’ to which he was still, occasionally, subjected. Reynard relaxed slightly. “Seems someone did miss the child, and everyone in Norwich has come to demand justice for him. They don’t trust us to do the right thing.”

 

Reynard nodded, surveying the crowd. They weren’t quite a rabble, but there were many of them drunk, all of them angry. He sympathised – he too was angry at the death of a child.

 

“Do we know when the boy went missing?”

 

“According to his aunt ten days ago – hang on. The Sheriff’s going to say something.”

 

De Chesney stood, leaning forward bullishly over the table, waiting for silence. Gradually the room came to order.

 

“Alright, people,” he said, visibly reigning in his irritation. “I understand your concern, but I can assure you –” he paused for emphasis, “absolutely assure you, that we are taking this murder seriously.” Voices started to rise, and de Chesney screwed his face up in concentration, trying to understand the Anglo-Saxon being thrown at him from all sides. “People,” he raised his voice. “It’s impossible for us to do our job if you don’t let us.”

 

“How can we trust you people?” a woman called from the crowd. “It’s not your child who was murdered.”

 

“Goodwife,” de Chesney said, and the crowd muttered with surprise at the respectful title. “We are not heartless. The death of a child is always a tragedy, and a murder is an offence against God. If the murderer lives in Norwich, we will bring him to justice.”

 

“We already know who it was,” the woman declared.

 

De Chesney glared at her. “In that case, would you be so good as to share your information?”

 

The woman, who had pushed her way to the front of the crowd, stared at him defiantly. “It was the Jews.”

 

All hell broke out.

~*~

 

_“…sicut malum inter ligna silvarum sic dilectus meus inter filios sub umbra illius quam desideraveram sedi et fructus eius dulcis gutturi meo….”_

Benoni’s voice was low, barely audible above the hissing fire, as he recited the words of _Canticum Canticorum_ to himself. It was too dark to read, but he knew the text by heart.

 

 _By heart,_ he thought to himself, letting his words trail off. _Why do I feel so much today, why does everything hurt?_ He knew why. He knew this sweet pain, aching beneath his ribs. He’d felt it once before.

 

_Oh, stupid … stupid Benoni._

 

He closed his eyes, and flung his arm across his face, blocking out the dim red flicker of the dying fire. What was he thinking? The man he was fixed on would never love him. Benoni knew himself – he was not fitted for love, even when the beloved was of the correct gender. He thought of Sigewif, and shifted onto his side, trying to get comfortable on the bed of rushes. His back ached – he had worked too hard in the garden. Nothing other than that. It was not because….

 

When you loved people they hurt you, that was all. He should know better now than to trust love. Still … the image of the beloved came back into his mind.

 

_“…in lectulo meo per noctes quaesivi quem diligit anima mea quaesivi illum et non inveni….”_

 

The fire sank, and sighed, collapsing into darkness as Benoni allowed the words to lull him into sleep.

_He had no sight: blind and groping. He felt fleeting touch, heard Reynard’s voice, but he had forgotten how to speak Anglo-Saxon._

_“What are you saying? I can’t understand what you are saying.”_

_“…eal ic eom oflongad….”_

_“Please, I don’t understand….”_

_“_ _Wa bið þam þe sceal_ _of langoþe leofes abidan.”_

_He reached out in the dark and –_

 

Benoni woke to the sound of knocking at his door-frame. At this time of night it could only be someone desperate for his help. He rolled to his knees and stood, groped his way to the door and lifted the leather flap.

 

There stood Reynard. Benoni blinked, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight. It was as though the man had just walked out of his dream.

 

He blurted out in surprise, “What are you doing here?”

 

“Uhm….” The other man sounded unsure for a moment, then cleared his throat. “I thought you’d want to know we found the boy’s family.”

 

“Oh.” Benoni stepped back into his hut, holding up the door flap and gesturing for his guest to enter. He glanced to the fire pit. He shouldn’t have let it go out…. “Tell me,” he said, as he knelt and started to build up kindling.

 

“Well, uh … the child was identified by his mother today.”

 

“Oh dear.” Benoni glanced at the shadowed figure standing awkwardly against the door. “Were you there for the … identification?”

 

“Yes,” Reynard said, curtly. “We had to dig him up again.”

 

Benoni said nothing for a moment, concentrating on the fire. When it was fully kindled, he sat back on his haunches and spoke carefully. “That must have been difficult for you.”

 

“Yes,” Reynard confessed. “Yes, it was.”

 

Benoni reached out and squeezed Reynard’s hand. For a heartbeat he thought he’d done the wrong thing – then Reynard squeezed back. “I’m sorry,” Benoni said.

 

“Not your fault,” Reynard replied, then smiled.

 

Benoni’s breath caught in his throat. That was … oh God in heaven, that was such a beautiful smile. In the warm glow of the firelight Reynard looked like the statue of an archangel, painted gold.

 

“Stay?” Benoni whispered. His voice was gravel in his throat. “Stay.”

~*~

 

The two men lay in each other’s arms. The blond one shifted slightly, and the dark one mumbled in his sleep. The blond one opened his eyes.

 

 _S’blood,_ Reynard thought, _I kissed a man._ He pulled slightly away, and saw Benoni’s face, dimly shadowed in the light that filtered through the chimney-hole.

 

 _What am I doing?_ he wondered, as he moved back into Benoni’s space, and settled his head on his shoulder. _Why did I come here?_ He swallowed a groan, and shut his eyes. There was something wrong with him – not just that he had opened his mouth and let in another man’s tongue, that he had kissed back as though he was in a woman’s arms – but that he was here, comfortable, with anyone at all. It seemed, somehow, disrespectful to the dead.

 

“Rey?” Benoni’s voice murmured against his ear, and the broad body shifted beneath him.

 

“Ben,” he replied, not moving.

 

“Are you … are you alright?”

 

Reynard opened his mouth, about to reassure Benoni when he flashed on the boy’s family. The father’s noisy grief … the mother’s appalled silence, then collapse.

 

“Oh God, I’m disgusting,” he said, and rolled off Benoni. He had no right to take comfort in anyone’s arms when there was a murderer out there, and a family unavenged.

 

When he looked back he saw Benoni, tight-faced, and realised that his words had been misunderstood. “I didn’t mean you,” he said. “I didn’t mean us – I meant….” God knew what he’d meant. “I’m sorry – yesterday was difficult, and I should have gone back to barracks. I don’t know what I’ll tell them.”

 

“Tell them that you came to question me, and it was too dark to return over the hill.” Benoni got to his feet. “It is true, after all – isn’t it?”

 

“Is it?” Reynard felt a surge of incomprehension, turning quickly into irritation as the other man stepped out of the hut. He followed, pushing aside the heavy door-flap, and blinking against the daylight. “I came to tell you we’d found the boy’s family.”

 

“Yes,” Benoni said. “You told me. And then … then we didn’t do much talking at all.”

 

Reynard flushed. Was Benoni regretting their intimacy? Was this … this _hermit_ about to accuse him of corrupting his morals? He wanted to say something cutting and sharp, but he wasn’t at his most witty first thing in the morning. Instead, he scowled. Benoni turned his back, and stepped off toward the herb section of his garden. He knelt, and started to weed. After a moment, Reynard joined him. The air smelled of mint.

 

“I meant to tell you about the investigation,” Reynard admitted, twisting his long fingers into the soil to grasp a dandelion root. He tugged, and the weed came up with a soft scatter of earth. “But it was late, and I was tired and….”

 

“And we were distracted.” Benoni smiled, and pulled up another root. “I understand. You can tell me now.”

 

Reynard nodded, and stared fiercely at the ground as he began to speak.

 

“You didn’t see the body, Ben, so you don’t know. But he was just a child – and someone had stripped him. He’d been … he’d been used.”

 

“Used?”

 

Reynard nodded, and carried on talking. He couldn’t look at Benoni while he was telling this story. “We haven’t told his parents. When they came to identify him, we had him wrapped up in blankets, like he was sick or something, and going to get better. But – he won’t get better. He’s just dead.” Reynard swallowed. “And the man who did it to him will probably get away with it.”

 

“God watches.”

 

“I thought you didn’t believe that stuff.”

 

“I believe nothing happens without that Some Thing bears witness to it. I believe that nothing happens without consequence. Should the killer escape the justice of man he will never escape the fact of his having committed rape and murder.”

 

“So, you mean, he’ll have to answer to God?”

 

“He’ll answer. That’s all I know.” Benoni brushed the earth off his hands. “So, who were the family?”

 

“Wenstun and Elivira –”

 

“Wenstun the Tanner and his wife Elvira?” Benoni’s face registered shock. “I know them. The boy wasn’t William, was he?”

 

Reynard’s mouth went dry. “Yes,” he said, cautiously. Damnation, he wished Benoni hadn’t known the family. But then, the hermit was visited by many people who couldn’t afford a doctor, or didn’t trust them. Even so – a hermit living by the edge of the woods would be a suspect, particularly given the level of hysteria he had witnessed yesterday when the victim’s aunt accused the Jews. He swallowed to bring moisture back to his tongue. “I’m sorry, Ben,” he said, “now I have to ask what you were doing on Black Saturday?”

 

“It’s quite alright, Rey,” Benoni said smoothly. “As it happens, I was at the Castle stables, helping deliver a foal. He was turned the wrong way, and it was a traumatic delivery.”

 

Reynard relaxed. “That’s good,” he said. “I was worried they’d come after you.”

 

“Who, the townsfolk?” Benoni looked serious. “How bad is it? The reaction I mean?”

 

“Bad,” Reynard admitted. “They’re saying the Jews did it, that they sacrificed him for their Passover Feast.”

 

Benoni’s brow creased. “And after curfew, after the gates were locked on Jewry, they somehow carried the body through the Christian quarters all the way to Thorpe Wood and nobody saw them?”

 

Reynard gave a bitter laugh. “They’re not making a lot of sense.”

 

“No.” Benoni sighed. “Hysterical people never do. I should go and offer my condolences to Wenstun and Elvira.”

 

“Elvira’s in a bad way.”

 

“I’ll make her a tisane,” Benoni said, “she must be in terrible shock.”

 

“Her sister isn’t helping.”

 

“Her sister?” Benoni’s body stilled for a moment, then he carried on plucking herbs.

 

“Yes. You know her?”

 

“Sigewif. I know her.”

 

“You know, for a hermit, you know an awful lot of people.” Reynard tried to lighten the mood. “It’s like a county fair here – stablehands dropping in asking for help delivering foals, soldiers turning up at your door, wolves dropping by for a quiet chat….”

 

Benoni laughed. “Only one Wolf,” he said, “but yes. I moved out here for some peace, but trouble continues to find me.”

 

“Trouble?”

 

Benoni grimaced. “I was ill-suited for monastic life.”

 

“How did you end up a monk then?”

 

“I was the second son. My father gave me over to the care of the church when I was six.”

 

“And the first son?”

 

“He was a soldier,” Benoni smiled sadly. “Like you, only in France. He never saw England, though he had promised to come for me when I was of age.”

                                                                    

“But he died?”

 

“He died.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Enough,” Benoni said, “of sad talk. I should prepare these herbs for Elvira and let you report to your barracks.”

 

“Yes,” Reynard scratched his head, scruffling up his hair. “Will I … uh … see you again?” Then, as if that might have been showing too much of his heart, he added “…for continuing to investigate this thing….”

 

Benoni glanced at him shyly, then smiled, thinking that “this thing to investigate” _could_ be the crime at hand … or it _could_ be “this thing” between them. “If you’ll have me.”

~*~

 

Rabbi Elias Ben Simeon herded the children through the hostile crowd into the gateway that separated Jewry from Norwich proper. Once everyone was safely in he nodded to Shmuel to lock the gates.

 

“Are you sure this is necessary so early today?” Shmuel drew the last bolt home and looked at his father uncertainly.

 

“Yes,” his father asserted. “They’ve been drinking earlier than usual anyway, and now they all think we’re murderers.”

 

“The Castle sent soldiers to protect us.”

 

“You should know by now that we can’t rely on outside help. Some of the soldiers are Saxons, and will sympathise with the townsfolk.”

 

“They can’t all believe that lie.”

 

Outside the gate shouting and jeering started up. Shmuel looked at his father with wide eyes. The Rabbi smiled sadly.

 

“You’d be surprised what many people can believe.”

~*~

 

 

The soldiers stood ranked against the wall of Jewry, silently facing the crowd. Reynard clenched his jaw, and felt his stomach churn. It was one thing to know the victim’s name – William son of Wenstun – another thing to see a family member grieving in public. William’s aunt was standing outside St. Peter’s, her voice pitched for the crowd, although Reynard couldn’t quite hear her words at this distance.

 

Sigewif was blonde, as all the Saxons were, but she was unusually tall, and her hair was a tumble of curls. There was a tragic expression on her face, visible even at this distance. For some reason Reynard was reminded of the lead in a troupe of actors he had seen once visiting the castle. He frowned, wondering why he instinctively disliked this woman. She was wrong in her accusations against the Jews – but she was bereaved, and like many a person faced with tragedy, needed someone to blame.

 

“It looks ugly,” Hugo de Gascoigne muttered at him, sideways.

 

Reynard nodded, his shoulders tense. “There’s going to be a riot if we’re not careful. She’s going to start one.”

 

“It’s a shame she’s a woman. If she were a man we could arrest her for inciting public disorder.”

 

“She’s a relative of the child,” Reynard said. “Anything we do will just turn her into a martyr.”

 

“Do you believe her?”

 

“What? That the Jews did it? Of course not.”

 

Hugo nodded approval. “So not all Saxons are stupid,” he said. Reynard didn’t reply – he was used to such condescending comments. “Unfortunately, most of your lot believe every word out of her beautiful mouth.”

 

Reynard looked back at Sigewif. Her voice was raised, declaiming, and he thought again of the troupe of actors. Maybe, he thought suddenly, she knows the Jews had nothing to do with it. Maybe she’s making it up … covering for somebody….

 

No. It was too shocking a thought that a woman might be involved in such a thing. He shut his eyes, remembering the abused little body, and felt his lips thin. He hoped Benoni was right, and that the killer would have to answer to Justice.

 

He thought of Benoni, so certain that the Right would triumph somehow.

 

Benoni would have to have faith for both of them. Reynard had no faith at all.

~*~

 

De Chesney looked out the Castle window, and muttered a prayer of thanks for the rain. What had looked like the start of a riot had been quelled by a drenching downpour, and the rabble had been dispersed by his men without too much trouble. There had been some exchange of blows, but all in all it had been a relatively bloodless battle – although one of his soldiers stood before him now with a gash on his forehead and rain-diluted blood smeared across his face.

 

“Soldier,” he said, squinting at the man. One of the Saxons, Reynard. “At ease.”

 

The soldier’s stance relaxed a little, though he kept his eyes fixed ahead, just as he should.

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Of all my soldiers, you are the only one injured. Do you care to tell me what happened?”

 

Actually, de Chesney could guess – Reynard would have been targeted for special attention, since his people saw him as a traitor.

 

“I was struck, Sir, by stones.”

 

More than one stone. More injuries than were visible then.

 

“Have you seen the physician?”

 

“Not yet, Sir.”

 

“Make that your next duty, after finishing your report. I understand from your comrades that you were separated from them. How did that happen?”

 

“There was a man in the crowd  being harassed, and I went to his assistance.”

 

“By yourself? Could you not have waited until your commander gave orders for a group of you to assist him?”

 

“In retrospect, Sir, that would have been the wise thing to do.”

 

“So, who was this man?”

 

“A hermit, Sir. He was talking to the boy’s aunt, and trying to persuade the crowd that the Jews were innocent.”

 

“I see.” De Chesney sighed. “A hermit. Just what we need – the Church involved. And what was a hermit doing in the middle of the market place? He wasn’t one of those ecstatics prophesying the end of the world, was he?”

 

“No, Sir.” Reynard bridled. “He knows the family. He came to bring herbs to Elvira and heard that her sister was stirring up the crowd –”

 

“God preserve us from do-gooders,” de Chesney muttered. He scratched his chin. “So, this hermit is a friend of the family’s?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“It might be worthwhile to call him in, to ask him what he knows of them.”

 

“Yes, Sir. He’s still here, actually. He’s visiting the stables – he delivered a foal on Saturday night.”

 

“What is he, a hermit or an ostler?”

 

“Uhm … he’s something of a doctor, Sir. The locals go to him for help.”

 

“And they have a good word for him?”

 

“Yes, Sir. He has an excellent reputation.”

 

De Chesney sighed. “A shame they couldn’t think of that when he tried to talk some sense into them. Never mind – we’ll kill two birds with one stone. You see him to have that gash tended to, and then bring him here. I’ll want to question him.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Reynard stood smartly to attention.

 

“Dismissed.”

~*~

 

Benoni gentled the anxious mare with long strokes, putting his weight into it, and massaging her abdomen.

 

“She’s not seriously ill,” he reassured the groom. “As you guessed, she doesn’t have colic.”

 

“She doesn’t seem to like the foal,” the groom said, scowling. “I’ve seen it before, and we lose both mother and child.”

 

“It won’t come to that,” Benoni said. “For now, milk the mother, so she doesn’t get milk block – that leads to fever and death – and let the foal feed from a bucket near his mother. Keep them close to each other, but don’t force the foal upon her. In a few days, if she has not accepted him, I’ll look at them again, but things should be fine.”

 

“What did you say to them?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Earlier, you were talking to them.”

 

“Oh….” Benoni blushed. He had been talking to them, out of habit with the Wolf perhaps. “I was … I was praying.”

 

“Didn’t look like that.” The groom gave him a mistrustful look, then shrugged. “It was Latin though. Maybe you know some funny prayers just for horses.”

 

Benoni smiled and attempted to deflect the conversation away from his own peculiarities. “Animals pray you know. It says so in Scripture.”

 

“It does?”

 

“Yes, the baby ravens cry out to God for their food. And a donkey saw an angel and spoke.”

 

“You know a lot about Scripture.”

 

“I grew up in a monastery.”

 

The groom sounded envious. “I grew up hungry. It’s only since I’ve been working here that I’ve known where the next meal is coming from. I suppose you never went a day hungry in your life.”

 

Benoni said nothing, not seeing the point of correcting him. As well as the strict fasts imposed by canon law, he had spent much of his childhood being punished for one infraction or another, being put on bread and water.

 

The groom was continuing. “I have three daughters. Do you think I should put the youngest in the nunnery? It’s a good life for a girl, and it will surely earn me an indulgence –”

 

“No,” Benoni said, without thinking. He backtracked quickly. “I mean, you should ask your daughter. It’s a hard life, she may not take to it.”

 

“She’ll do as I tell her,” the groom muttered. Then he sighed. “I’d as soon they all married and brought me heirs – a grandson would be nice. But I can’t afford three dowries.”

 

“Perhaps they’ll marry for love.”

 

“Love,” the groom laughed out loud. “Only a hermit would have such fanciful notions.” He clapped a hand on Benoni’s shoulder. “Thank you for your help with the horse. Come now, beer, bread and cheese before you go home. You have a long walk ahead of you.”

 

“Not that long, and I am used to it….”

 

“What sort of man turns down beer?”

 

Benoni smiled. “Far be it for me to reject your hospitality.” Besides, if he stayed at the Castle a little longer he might see Reynard again. And he very much wanted to see Reynard.

~*~

 

The Castle kitchens were huge, and hot, and Reynard sweated in his leather tunic. The chamber was full of people shouting, and dodging in and out of the way bearing vast trays of food. When Reynard first started coming to the Castle, as a stablehand, he had spent his entire first week ravenous, just at the smell… so different from turnips, beans, and onions. Hunting was not allowed anymore, but sometimes his father trapped small animals, or caught a fish – and that was good. But venison, boar – he’d never seen or smelled those things before, let alone eaten them.

 

Now he took it for granted that the King’s soldiers would eat well. His father, bitterly, had suggested that was why he’d become a soldier – for the food. When he’d been working as a stablehand he’d brought back scraps for his parents. When he became a soldier, they shut the door. “I’d sooner starve,” his father said, in that last, terrible argument.

 

Reynard shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory. He was here looking for Benoni – a stable lad had told him he was eating in the kitchen.

 

He found Benoni sitting in the corner, back up against the wall as though he was trying to make himself invisible. He was dipping his bread into a tankard of beer, and seeming oblivious to the attentions of a kitchen maid, who was all but sitting on his lap.

 

“Ben,” Reynard called out, feeling angry at the flicker of jealousy in his chest. “I was looking for you.”

 

“And I you,” Benoni said with what looked like relief. His eyes clouded for a moment. “That gash needs looking at.”

 

“That’s why I’m here,” Reynard squatted down opposite Benoni, and glared at the woman. “Shouldn’t you be working,” he asked pointedly. She stood up, pouting, and flounced away. “Sorry about her,” Reynard said to Benoni. “She’s a little aggressive sometimes.”

 

“She was in no way inappropriate,” Benoni said. “Though she didn’t seem to believe I’m a hermit.”

 

“I find that hard to believe myself,” Reynard chuckled, before remembering where they were. “Uhm … yes. Well, the Sheriff sent me to have my head looked at. And then, when you’ve had a look at it and made sure my brains haven’t leaked out, he wants to talk to you about, you know. William’s family. What you know about them and all that.”

 

Benoni put his food to one side, and gestured for Reynard to sit next to him. Reynard sat, and leant his back against the wall, trying not to grin too obviously. His heart was beating hard – they were in public, and Benoni was going to touch him. It felt like a strange intimacy. He shut his eyes.

~*~

 

Reynard shut his eyes and rested his head against the wall. Benoni swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, trying not to look at the pulse point in his new friend’s throat.

 

Friend? Was that the word for what they were? They had shared kisses, and touched each other tenderly, tentatively – surely they were more than friends….

 

He chastised himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about such things now, in a crowded kitchen no less, surrounded by so many people. Rather, he should be tending to Reynard’s wound. Bringing himself back to the task at hand, Benoni tipped his beer, letting it soak his fingers and dribble into the rushes, before examining the wound. Reynard hissed, and Benoni tutted, unhappy to see that infection had already set in.

 

“Give me a moment,” he said, “I need to get some medicaments from my bag.” Reynard nodded, dreamily, his eyes still closed. Benoni rummaged through his bag, and pulled out a bottle of ointment. Reynard wrinkled his nose.

 

“That smells disgusting.”

 

Benoni smiled. Reynard sounded just like a child complaining, and his face was equally childlike and seemingly innocent, eyes shut as though he were sleeping.

 

“It’s made out of a mixture of fermented….”

 

“I don’t want to know. I do not want to know. And don’t expect me to swallow it.”

 

“Actually, no. I put it on your wound.”

 

“Good. So long as I don’t have to swallow it … S’wounds! That stings!” Reynard’s eyes flew open, and he glared at Benoni. “You could have warned me.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Sorry. Now he says sorry. Ow.”

 

“Here,” Benoni held out his bread. “Press this against the wound.”

 

Reynard took the bread and pressed it to the wound. “My mother does that too,” he commented. “When I was a kid and came back with a grazed knee or whatever – she always used blue bread though. Used to let it grow.”

 

“Blue bread is better,” Benoni admitted, “though I have no idea why.”

 

Reynard eyed Benoni’s tankard, meaningfully. “Least you could do after stinging my head is offer me a drink.”

 

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Benoni passed the tankard. Reynard took a swig, then pulled a face.

 

“How much water did you put in this?”

 

“I’m not used to ale.”

 

“Are you sure you grew up in a monastery? Those guys are famous for their beer.”

 

“I spent a lot of time on bread and water. I was a disobedient child.”

 

“I can’t imagine that.” Reynard quirked a smile, and handed the tankard back to Benoni. “Is that why you left the monastery?”

 

“I found it hard to obey the monastic rule,” Benoni admitted. “And … there was a woman.”

 

“A woman?” Reynard sat up straighter.

 

Benoni nodded, and turned to his bag, as much to hide his face as to find a bandage. He’d have to admit to this. “Sigewif, William’s aunt. We were … involved.”

 

Reynard looked stricken. “That’s … that’s going to look bad if it comes out.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“What happened? I mean, you’re not together anymore.”

 

Benoni sighed, and started to wrap Reynard’s wound. “She had another lover. Things got … complicated. She stabbed me in the back.”

 

“I know,” Reynard looked at him sympathetically. “That’s what it feels like when –”

 

“No,” Benoni shocked himself by laughing. “She literally stabbed me in the back. I nearly died of it.”

 

“She….” Reynard looked blank. “Why wasn’t she arrested?”

 

“You’re the first person I’ve told.”

 

“Why did she….” Reynard trailed off, and Benoni guessed what was going through his mind. Why would a woman stab a man? Perhaps Reynard thought he’d been beating her.

 

“I disapproved of the man she was seeing,” Benoni explained, thinking again, with revulsion, of Clowen, and the signals he had set off. A sense of pure disgust. “It wasn’t just jealousy – she had made it clear that it was over between us, and I accepted that. But he brought out a darkness in her. I expressed to him my opinion that he should leave Norwich. The altercation became physical. He held me down, she stabbed me in the back. He left her anyway.”

 

“Serves the bitch right,” Reynard said, fiercely.

 

Benoni grunted. He didn’t know how to respond to such a comment – after all these years he still didn’t know what he felt. Tired of it, he supposed. Wishing he could leave the memories behind.

 

“She was very beautiful,” he said, “and I was very young. I was used to harsh words, and her voice was soft and kind.” He shook his head. “Beauty can hide such darkness.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Well, you must think me quite a fool.” Briskly he finished binding the bandage around Reynard’s head, and tied a knot to keep it in place.

 

“No. Anyone can fall in love with the wrong woman.” Reynard sighed. “That’s how come I ended up a soldier, falling in love with the wrong woman.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“She was a Norman, I looked after her horses, but I was playing the Lord for her. Lying through my teeth. Pretending to be some kind of hero I wasn’t. I don’t know how, but she fell for me. Her family found out – I don’t know where she is now. I thought … I thought if I became a soldier I might somehow find her again, get sent to Normandy, guard a castle or something. You know, I was young.”

 

“So you don’t want to be a soldier?”

 

“Don’t misunderstand me – I know most Saxons think I’m a traitor, but my view is, your people are here to stay, and if things are going to get better, then Saxons need someone on their side if the soldiers are sent in. What I mean is….” He grimaced. “Just – we had warriors before your lot came, and warriors need to serve. So, I’m serving. Not just the Normans, but my people too, because someone needs to catch the villains.”

 

“You are saying that by being a soldier you serve the common good, and are part of a change for the better, where Norman and Saxon will be as one.”

 

Reynard paused, then flashed a smile. “You say it so much better than I do.”

 

“How does the wound feel?”

 

“Better.”

 

“Well then, I should go and be questioned by the Sheriff.”

 

Reynard groaned. “I’d forgotten about that.”

 

“Let’s get it out of the way.” Benoni stood, and offered a hand. Reynard took it, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. They stood, smiling, for a moment too long, before a kitchen hand started laughing, and they came back to themselves, realising where they were.

 

“Uhm … this way,” Reynard said, putting his hands behind his back. “Follow me.”

~*~

 

It wasn’t just the Sheriff who greeted them. Everard of Calne, the Bishop of Norwich, was waiting in the Great Hall, sitting in the high-backed chair, red-faced and sweating, although the weather was cool. De Chesney stood, at a respectful distance, and glanced sideways as Reynard and Benoni approached. He gestured with his head for them to kneel. The Bishop leant forward, extending his ring to be kissed. Resentfully, Reynard knelt and kissed the ring. To Reynard’s shock, Benoni didn’t. Instead, he said something in Latin – sounding very polite, but very determined.

 

The Bishop laughed. “One of those hermits, are you?”

 

Benoni said nothing for a moment, but relaxed slightly. Then he said “I’m sure you understand.”

 

“I understand,” de Calne said. Reynard was surprised by the man’s clear Anglo-Saxon accents. He should have guessed it – Calne was in Wiltshire. But somehow he had expected him to be Norman…and he might as well be – high up in the King’s favour as he was, he was so rarely at his palace that Reynard had never even seen him before. He’d obviously thrived on the lifestyle– other than butchers Reynard had never seen an Anglo-Saxon with such a paunch, and this man looked at least five months pregnant. Reynard stifled a grin at the uncharitable thought. They were here for serious business.

 

“So, what’s this I hear about the Jews sacrificing a boy for Passover?”

 

“My Lord, it’s nonsense,” Benoni said.

 

“Well, obviously it’s nonsense,” the Bishop agreed. “But what exactly is the accusation?”

 

Benoni looked at Reynard and de Chesney for support, but both men were silent. Reynard didn’t know how to talk to a Bishop, and de Chesney was clearly letting the religious confer amongst themselves. Benoni squared his shoulders and turned back to de Calne.

 

“The precise accusation is that they needed the blood of a Christian child to make their matzos for the Passover Feast.”

 

De Calne stared blankly at Benoni for a moment, then leant back in his chair and started to laugh. He wiped a hand across his sweaty brow, and laughed so hard his belly rolled. Reynard felt irritation boiling in his gut – how dare the man laugh? People’s lives were at stake here. The way things were going, the Jews were going to be forced out of Norwich, and what good would that do?

 

When the Bishop had finally calmed down he had the decency to smile apologetically at the three men waiting on his words. “I am sorry, but I’ve never heard such a stupid thing in my life. For one thing, it goes completely against Levitical law.”

 

“Levitical law?” Reynard flushed, realising he’d spoken up. “My Lord Bishop,” he added, just to be on the safe side. This guy didn’t look like he wasted much time standing on ceremony, but it didn’t do any harm to be sure.

 

“Yes, Soldier. The Jews have their religious laws, just as we have. They do not consume blood in any form – they would consider it unclean, and disrespectful to God. The idea that they would cannibalise a human child to celebrate their deliverance from Egypt is quite frankly insane. It would defile the Passover.”

 

“Which they celebrate at the same time as we do Easter,” de Chesney said, speaking for the first time.

 

“I knew that.” Reynard was feeling slightly stupid, and blurted out again. “I knew that.”

 

“And,” Benoni interrupted, “let’s not forget that Jesus celebrated Passover. He’s hardly likely to have been involved in such a ritual.”

 

The Bishop shrugged. “Perhaps the people will argue that Jews have changed in the last thousand years. It’s been a long time since the crucifixion.”

 

 _Yes, and He’s still not back,_ Reynard thought, blasphemously. He kept his opinions to himself. At least people were building in stone now – they weren’t expecting the end of the world so much, despite the occasional ‘prophet’ in the market place. The prophets would probably still be there in the next thousand years too….

 

“The point is, my Lord,” de Chesney said, “we have a real problem, and the people of Norwich don’t trust us to take this murder seriously. We need the Church to undertake an independent investigation, and to be seen as being on the Saxons’ side.”

 

“Well,” de Calne sighed. “I’ll do my best. Play up my accent, dress less elegantly perhaps.”

 

“Perhaps, my Lord, it would be better for you to play up your authority, so they know it’s possible for a Saxon to rise, and still be on their side.”

 

“Good considerations. Now, to business. Hermit,” the Bishop addressed Benoni. “I understand you have a pre-existing connection with the family, and that you’ve had an opportunity to talk to them today.”

 

“Yes, my Lord.” Benoni cleared his throat, and straightened, almost as though he were a soldier himself. “I visited Elvira, the boy’s mother, with herbs and roots, to prepare a tisane for her, and assess what other help she may need. She is pale and unresponsive –”

 

“The locals will think that she has had her soul stolen away,” the Bishop grumbled.

 

“Yes, my Lord. That’s the common assessment. Though whether by Jews, faeries, or witches they are not sure. Some think that she has followed after her son to try to take him back from the underworld.”

 

“The superstition of these people never fails to appall me. Continue.”

 

“Yes, my Lord. Her husband is over his first shock, and is now furious with the Jews. His sister-in-law, Sigewif…” Benoni’s voice stumbled for a moment. “Sigewif seems to have been the first to start the libel of the blood. She was the first to mention Jews, and the first to suggest that they used the boy’s blood for the Passover.”

 

“And what are her grounds for such an accusation?”

 

“William was an apprentice tanner, and as such had dealings with many people in Norwich, including the Jews. Sigewif claims that the last time she saw William was ten days ago, entering a Jewish household.”

 

“Does she explain what she was doing in Jewry?”

 

“No, my Lord, she doesn’t.”

 

“Ten days is a long time for a child to be missing without their parents noticing. He was an apprentice – to whom was he apprenticed?”

 

“Well, that’s the complication. Originally he was apprenticed to his father, and was expected to follow his father’s trade. But recently his parents were approached by a man claiming to be a cook at the Cathedral, who offered to train him in the kitchens.”

 

“Ah.” The Bishop rubbed his face, wearily. “That’s unfortunate. Go on.”

 

Benoni cleared his throat again. “Hmm… well, the mother accepted three shillings payment up front for her son’s wages, and let him go.”

 

“Three shillings?” Reynard forgot himself and let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money.”

 

“It is.” Benoni started apologising for the family. “It’s not unheard of for such transactions to take place, and there are younger children in the family who are in need of bread –”

 

“Don’t make excuses for them – sorry, my Lord.” Reynard suddenly remembered where he was. “I was just saying, you don’t sell your child to a stranger and then forget about him for ten days. And the aunt’s story doesn’t add up. She says the child was seeing the Jews because he had business as a tanner, but if he was working in the kitchens he had no business with them at all.”

 

“Quite.” Benoni rubbed his eyebrow miserably. “Which leads me to believe that Sigewif … that the aunt … knows more than she’s saying.”

 

“The woman is involved?” De Chesney butted in, glancing apologetically at the Bishop.

 

“I think so. Because Elvira did not sell her son to a stranger. She sold him to Sigewif’s lover –”

 

“You mean he’s back?”

 

“Yes.” Unconsciously Benoni rubbed the small of his back. “Clowen is back.”

_S’blood, that’s got to be a shock for Ben…._

“At least, he was back.” Benoni looked suddenly angry. “I’ve asked around the Cathedral kitchens – nobody’s ever heard of him. And then I asked around the Castle kitchens, in case someone made a mistake – nobody has heard of him there either.”

 

“So,” de Chesney broke in. “You’re saying that the family sold their son to someone they thought would provide him with a safe trade for life, someone they knew and trusted, and that you suspect this man of the murder, and the aunt of covering it up?”

 

“That’s what I’m saying.”

 

The Bishop nodded ponderously. “I think it’s time to bring the aunt in for questioning.”

 

 _About bloody time,_ Reynard thought, fiercely. _I knew I didn’t trust that woman._

~*~

 

Elvira lay, watching the light filter through the chimney hole, dust motes sparkling in the sun. Something had woken her – a mewing sound, that she should have recognised. It must be late morning, she thought, and realised it was the first time she’d thought in a while. For a moment she didn’t remember – then she did. It stabbed her in the chest, the thought of her William, gone forever. She sucked in air, and realised as she did so that her breasts hurt, were hot and leaking. When did she last feed the baby, she wondered, and realised what had woken her – Rowena crying. She rolled to her side, but the child wasn’t there.

 

“Rowena,” she cried out in panic. Had she gone too, with her brother William?

 

“Here,” Wenstun said, looming suddenly in her sight. “She’s here.”

 

Desperately Elvira reached out for her child, whose whimpering turned to a full-throated wail. “Blerung has been nursing her while you’ve been gone.”

 

“Gone?”

 

“You went down the dark road,” Wenstun choked out. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

 

Elvira looked down at her crinkle-faced baby, already latched onto her breast. How could she have left her? How could she have left her other three?

 

“I’m back,” she said, and started weeping. “I’m back.”

~*~

 

The day was over, and dusk was coming to the huddle of Saxon huts. Benoni put one foot in front of the other, staring at the ground as he and Rey walked from Jewry to the Cathedral. Earlier that day, Reynard and the other soldiers had been assigned the unenviable task of examining all the narrow streets and the claustrophobic square for exits. As expected, the walls proved too high for easy escape.

 

“Nobody’d manage to get out of there with a body on their back once the gates are shut,” Reynard muttered.

 

“I hope there’s never a fire,” Benoni fretted, still looking at his feet. “Even if the gates were open, it would be hard to get everybody out.”

 

Reynard looked at him with concern. Benoni didn’t notice. _God forgive me for a fool,_ Benoni was thinking, _to have loved such a woman._ He swallowed, his mouth dry. _To love her still,_ he thought, and felt sick. _Although she’s telling such lies. And I’m faithless, walking next to the man I love now and remembering her…._

 

“Ben,” Reynard broke in on his thoughts, “are you alright?”

 

Ben blinked as he came back to the present. They were passing St. Peter’s where he had spoken to Sigewif in front of the crowd – to no avail. There was a group of women outside it now, lighting candles.

 

“No,” he answered Reynard’s question honestly. “Not really.”

 

“It’s this Sigewif woman, isn’t it? She’s bothering you.”

 

“The whole thing bothers me,” Benoni said. “She’s making things difficult for everyone, refusing to come to the Castle, drumming up supporters for her cause. It makes me feel….”

 

“What?”

 

“Stupid.”

 

“Stupid?”

“For what I felt for her – it’s hard to explain.”

 

“You still feel for her?”

 

“I still have feelings, yes.” Benoni felt a bitter smile twisting on his face. “I’ve loved one person before you….” He stopped, realising what he was admitting.

 

“You love me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Was that hard to say?”

 

“No.” No, it wasn’t. It fell naturally from his lips, without his even thinking about it. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Reynard said, and suddenly laughed. “You’re right. That wasn’t hard to say at all.”

 

“It’s odd,” Benoni said, smiling back. “I feel as though I’ve known you all my life. Longer, if such a thing were possible.”

 

Reynard reached out, and squeezed Benoni’s hand. “I feel it too.”

 

They walked in silence for a while, holding hands, and then Reynard spoke again. “So, this Sigewif  woman. Broke your heart?”

 

“Yes, though I pray that hearts can mend. In the end I saw such ugliness in her – yet, I feel somehow that it was my fault. That if I had been able to be there for her, I could have saved her from herself.”

 

“Some people don’t want to be saved.”

 

“That is true.” Benoni stared off into the past. “I see what she is doing now, and don’t understand it. I can’t believe she had a hand in her nephew’s murder, that she could do such a terrible thing to her sister, and yet I feel as though she’s hiding something.”

 

“You know her.”

 

“Perhaps. I thought I did.”

 

“What did she do then, in the end?” When Reynard questioned, Benoni let go his hand. Reynard’s eyes flickered with hurt for a moment, and he bit his lip.

 

“She sheltered a thief,” Benoni said, grimly. “She passed on stolen goods.”

 

Reynard stopped in his tracks. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

 

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t send her to the Castle. She’s beautiful. I couldn’t bear to think of what the guards might do.”

 

“No.” Reynard started walking again. “I understand that. There are some of them who would….” He trailed off, and shook his head. “I couldn’t have done it to Esther either, if she’d been a criminal.”

 

“Esther?” Benoni’s face softened. “Your childhood sweetheart.”

 

“More than that. I loved her forever. Like I will you.” Reynard blushed, and shoulder-bumped Benoni as though joking. Benoni bumped him back. After a moment’s silence, Reynard continued. “We both loved women from another world. You loved a Saxon, I loved a Norman.”

 

“Esther is a Jewish name.”

 

“Her mother was a convert.”

 

“Is that why you feel so strongly that the Jews are innocent in this?”

 

“No. It’s just I have eyes and a brain. Someone did it, but not the way they’re saying.”

 

“I’ll know when I’ve seen the body.”

 

“You’re so sure of yourself?”

 

“In this, yes. I have seen a lot of bodies.”

 

“I’m a soldier. I’ve seen a lot of bodies.”

 

“I’m also a physician.”

 

Reynard nodded. “Better you than me. I don’t like dead people.”

 

“They all tell a story.”

 

Reynard shuddered. “We’ll see what William tells you.”

 

“We will indeed.”

~*~

 

The monk sitting and praying by the little coffin was sweating, although it was cool. The Sheriff and his man, standing by, looked grim. Outside it had started to rain. The rattle echoed through the stone room. Benoni thought of the women and their candles flickering out – he was sad for them, even though he felt the candles were somehow misplaced. The women were commemorating a wrong done to a child, and that he sympathised with. But they were blaming the wrong people.

 

“So. Hermit.” The Sheriff sounded as sceptical as the Norman soldier at his side looked. “The Abbot tells me that you’ve got a keen eye when it comes to injuries and illness. Let’s see if it’s useful here. What do you see?”

 

“He was bound.” Benoni gestured at the ligature marks on the boy’s wrists.

 

“Obviously.” De Chesney’s voice was dry. “Anyone can see that.”

 

“Bruises on his throat. He was throttled.”

 

“Was that what killed him?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

De Chesney snorted. “As I thought.”

 

“I mean, I haven’t seen the body yet. He’s wrapped.”

 

Reynard flinched. “Ben, do you have to….” The Sheriff looked at them sharply and Reynard fell silent at the glance. The Norman soldier smirked. Benoni felt a chill of fear, for though he believed that he and Reynard had done nothing wrong in God’s eyes, yet in the eyes of men their relationship would be judged harshly. He realised suddenly that they were standing too close, shoulder to shoulder. Self-consciously he shifted aside, then covered the movement by stepping toward the body.

 

“Let me see.”

 

With a look of distaste, the Sheriff stood back, and gestured for the monk to remove the shroud.

 

The body told Benoni everything.

 

“He’s been raped,” he stated baldly. “The body has been washed, but you can see the bruises on his….”

 

“S’blood, don’t tell me,” Reynard broke out. “I’ve already seen it, I don’t need you to tell me about it.”

 

Benoni blinked. “I have to describe what I see.” Reynard put his fist to his mouth and swallowed. Benoni looked at the four other men in the room, and realised that they all looked pale. He was the only one unaffected, which struck him as strange. After all, the spirit had flown out of the body. Now it was just a piece of a puzzle….

 

 _Talk gently,_ he told himself, _for Reynard’s sake as much as their’s._

“I apologise,” he said.

 

“And I apologise for my soldier,” de Chesney said, glaring at Reynard. “He has a lily liver.”

 

Benoni restrained his irritation at the insult, and flicked a look at Reynard, who was staring at his feet, managing to look nauseated and ashamed at the same time. He wished he could speak up and reassure Reynard, or reach out and touch his shoulder – but that wasn’t possible. He was aware, in his peripheral vision, that the other soldier was still smirking.

 

He sighed, and turned his attention back to the body. He leant over it, and sniffed. Nothing unusual – just the slightly sweet smell he associated with corpses in the first stages of decay. Standing back he confirmed his first impression. Bruises to the thighs and waist – probably to the buttocks as well. He reached out, and took the pennies from the corpse’s eyes, peeled back the lids. Both were bloodshot. He nodded, and closed the lids, replaced the pennies. It was as he’d thought. He didn’t touch the mouth, fearing that the cracking sound of the jaw opening would be too much for the other men, but felt the skull, the neck, then down the length of the body.

 

Finally he examined the hands, several fingers missing, nibbled to the bone. The teeth marks were too big for a rat. Probably a fox … perhaps a cat. “Someone else must have seen the body,” he pointed out. “Whatever creature was scavenging was interrupted.”

 

“Nobody else has come forward since we last spoke,” de Chesney said. He looked at the Norman soldier. “Have they?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

Not surprising. Benoni sighed, and stood. He could have asked them to turn the body, but it would only confirm what he already knew by touch.

 

“He was beaten severely, sometime before he died. You can feel the contusions, as well as seeing the bruises. Bodies do bruise after death, but not as extensively as this.”

 

De Chesney looked at him askance. “How do you know bodies bruise after death?”

 

“When bodies are taken from the gallows,” Benoni said, “sometimes the crowd beat them. I have seen the bodies bruise.” He didn’t add that he had often been sent by the Abbot to dig unhallowed graves as a punishment for various infractions. His reputation was peculiar enough.

 

“So. You know these bruises happened before he died?”

 

“Yes … the lack of yellowing around the edges indicates that….” He heard Reynard making a little swallowing noise and stopped. “That’s not important right now. What’s important is that the child died of strangulation.” There was no way past it, he had to be graphic. “The whites of his eyes are red. He was throttled to death.”

 

“Not sacrificed then.”

 

“No. Murdered by his rapist.” Benoni paused. “Who is a big man, probably taller than me.”

                                                                                                                                    

“How on earth would you know that?”

 

“From the bruises on the boy’s arms. Look. These are finger marks.”

 

De Chesney grimaced, and looked into the coffin. “I see.”

 

In the back of Benoni’s mind a suspicion was growing into a certainty. Based on too little evidence, but there, nonetheless, like the first dark speck which presaged a cankerous spread. He hoped he was wrong.

 

“The spread is wider than mine,” he said, slowly, raising his own hand for comparison. “That indicates a bigger hand, which leads me to believe the man is at least my height, but certainly of a stronger build.” _He had big hands,_ he thought, but didn’t name him. Sigewif’s lover … _he had big hands. He was stronger than me._

 

“That … that actually makes sense.” De Chesney rubbed his face, and grudgingly offered, “thank you for your help, Hermit.” He sighed. “Nothing to do now but wrap the body up, bury him, and keep the peace.”

 

“Easier said than done I fear.”

 

De Chesney slumped, suddenly looking bone-tired. “I fear it too,” he said. He stared at the body for a long moment, then covered its face with the shroud.

~*~

 

There was a wicked wind when they buried William, bearing with it the breath of rain. Reynard and the other soldiers stood back, trying to be as discreet as possible, while the monks did their duty. De Calne himself presided – as much to prove that the Church was taking this seriously as anything else. Reynard thought it might be a mistake, to have such a high profile member of the clergy lead the funeral of a tanner’s son – it could only lead to speculation as to what the Church was hiding. Despite his reservations, he kept his thoughts to himself. De Chesney had expressed the same concerns, and been overridden by the Bishop. Nobody was going to listen to a mere soldier.

 

Benoni wasn’t invited.

 

The family stood hunched together by the muddy hole, their hair whipping in the wind as the storm approached. All colour seemed to have bleached out of the scene, but for greys and browns.  The smaller of the children fidgeted, looking bored, obviously not understanding what was happening; the eldest girl, nearly her mother’s height, held her little brother’s hand, looking blank and numb.

 

Sigewif had her arm around her sister. They were of a height, and their hair the same colour. It was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began in this light and weather – they would have looked like twins if Elvira hadn’t looked so old. If it hadn’t been for her blonde hair and the baby in her arms she could have been mistaken for a crone past childbearing. Sigewif turned her face toward her sister, and kissed her cheek. Elvira moaned, and leant into her sister’s embrace.

 

Reynard watched the scene and shuddered. There was something subtly wrong with Sigewif’s expression – _maybe I’m just imagining it because of what she did to Ben.…_ He glanced at Wenstun, the husband, standing at a slight distance from his women folk, and caught him looking at his sister-in-law. An expression of distaste was on his face – _he sees it too,_ Reynard realised with shock. _It’s not just me – Wenstun knows something about her…._

He jerked his gaze straight ahead. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring at the grieving family, when he was supposed to be guarding them. Not that there was anything to guard them against, other than crowds of sympathisers. The funeral was being held on the monastery grounds not only out of respect for the child’s innocence and the circumstances of his death, but also in an attempt to keep the townsfolk from crowding the ceremony. De Chesney was still hoping that things might calm down.

 

 _Not much chance of that,_ Reynard thought, just as the weather broke. He hunched his shoulders up against the biting rain, and waited for the ceremony to be over, so he could find Ben. Tell him that Wenstun knew something….

~*~

 

“I’ll speak to him,” Benoni said. He and Reynard were sitting outside of the barracks together, under shelter of the upper story, drinking hot water sweetened with mead and spiced with one of Benoni’s tisanes. The rain made a comforting backdrop to their conversation, and walled them in, as though they were the only two men in the world. “We were always on good terms.”

 

“Really?” Reynard was surprised, and tried to make a joke of it. “I thought that he’d think you were some lusty monk looking to have his way with his sister-in-law.”

 

“Actually, my intentions were completely honourable. I had intended to leave Holy Orders and marry her.” Benoni’s lips twitched in a wan smile. “In retrospect, I’m glad she stabbed me in the back first. The alternative of marriage to such a woman would be far worse.”

 

“Is that why you became a hermit?”

 

“No. I would have left the monastery whether I met Sigewif or not. It was a mutual agreement. I am _persona non grata.”_

 

“You know I don’t speak Latin.”

 

“Nobody wanted me.”

 

“I want you,” Reynard lowered his lashes flirtatiously. Benoni went pink, and tutted like an old woman. “You know,” Reynard added, growing serious, “She could have killed you.”

 

“She would have killed me anyway,” Benoni muttered, “one way or the other.”

 

Reynard paused. A huge question stuck in his throat – he took a swallow of his drink to wash away the anxiety. Time to ask.

 

“Do you think she had anything to do with it?”

 

Benoni dropped his head, and didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, so quietly that Reynard had to strain to hear him over the rain, he spoke. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I do.”

 

Reynard put his arm on Benoni’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ben,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Benoni said, in a slightly stronger voice, “I’ll go and talk to Wenstun. Find out from him what he knows….”

 

“Tomorrow. Tonight….” Reynard kissed him, lightly on the cheek, a promise.

 

“We can’t,” Benoni said, sounding unconvinced. “Not here.”

 

“Why? Because people might think we’re _argr?_ ”

 

Benoni’s eyes widened in shock. The word itself was such an insult that it was hardly spoken. “You’re a soldier, Rey, your comrades will talk.”

 

“You don’t know much about soldiers, do you? Why would they talk? They’re probably doing it themselves. You have to remember, these people are Norman.” Benoni burst out laughing at the implied insult to his heritage. Reynard grinned. “Besides, I know a place.”

 

“A place?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, look where I live. Right on the Castle grounds. In a castle there’s always a place.”

 

The ‘place’ turned out to be a hayloft in the stables. “Nice and warm here,” Reynard pointed out, as he scrambled up into the hay. “Away from the rain, and the horses aren’t talking.”

 

“We’ll have to be quiet.” Benoni’s earlier low mood seemed to have lifted. His eyes were twinkling with mischief.

 

“I can be quiet.”

 

“Oh. I’m sure you can….” Benoni grinned wickedly as Reynard offered a hand and pulled him up into the loft. “It’s me I’m worried about….” Reynard chuckled and scooted back, shrugging off his cape and beginning to tug his chainmail tunic over his head. Benoni moved forward on his hands and knees, and pressed him down against the hay, pinning his arms over his head. Reynard’s arms were still tangled in his tunic, and clinked when he shook them.

 

“Not fair,” he said, “I can’t fight you to get this off without it jangling.”

 

Benoni’s face was flushed pink, and his eyes were shining in the dim light. “So, don’t fight then. Just lie still.”

 

“Oh.” Reynard felt his heart rate pick up in anticipation. “That’s a plan.”

 

Benoni kissed him, shifting to reach Reynard’s underclothes. He peeled up the first layer of leather, to be confronted by the final soft undershirt. He tugged it all free of the belt, and then Reynard was shivering, half naked, his upper garments effectively binding his arms, his leather britches obviously too small where it counted. “You have far too many clothes on,” Benoni chastised him.

 

“It’s the uniform,” Reynard pointed out.

 

“You don’t always wear the helmet,” Benoni said, breathing on Reynard’s skin.

 

“Messes with my hair … ah! Do that again.”

 

Benoni smiled, and dipped his head down again, trailed his tongue through the fine gold down of Reynard’s chest. “Like that?”

 

“Just like that.”

 

Benoni nodded, proceeding with all the focus and dedication at his command.

~*~

 

For the first time in years, Benoni slept in past the dawn. When he woke, Reynard was leaning over him, one finger pressed against his lips.

 

“Hush,” Reynard whispered.

 

“What….” Benoni trailed off. Below him he could hear voices. The stablehands had arrived for the day’s shift. “’S’blood.” Uncharacteristically, Benoni cursed, then blushed to hear himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I….”

 

“Shush up will you?” Reynard glared at him, mock furious for a moment, then kissed him. “Lie quiet till I call for you.”

 

“Call for me?”

 

Reynard grabbed his chain mail, kissed him again, then wriggled out of sight. Benoni rolled, pulled on his garment, and was about to follow him, when he heard a light ‘thud.’ Obviously Reynard had chosen this spot for its escape route … a narrow window. For a moment Benoni contemplated following him, then he heard a voice.

 

“Hermit, are you there?”

 

Reynard was calling from beneath him. Benoni stuck his head out, and looked down. _How did he get dressed so fast?_ Reynard was looking up at him with laughter in his eyes. The chief groom was yawning massively. “How did you sleep?” Reynard asked, head tilted back so he could look directly at Benoni. “I hear that haylofts can be itchy.”

 

“I have salve for that.”

 

“I hear you’ve got salve for everything.”

 

Benoni paused. Was Reynard daring to flirt with him in front of the groom? “I’m always prepared,” he replied, coyly, then clambered down from the loft.

 

“Next time you decide to sleep here,” the groom said, “let me know. I’ll put some blankets up there for you.”

 

“Thank you,” Benoni said, surprised. He glanced sideways at Reynard, who was looking very smug.

 

“It may buy me an indulgence,” the groom added, and yawned widely. “Shut the door on your way out.”

~*~

 

Their good mood lasted until they reached the barracks, where Reynard’s companions were breaking bread. De Chesney was already there. Antoine was sneering – Reynard knew immediately he was in trouble.

 

“Where have you been,” de Chesney demanded of Reynard. “I like to know where my soldiers spend the night.”

 

Hugo de Gascoigne broke in. “He has a sweetheart,” he said, “on the other side of the market.”

 

“Well,” de Chesney said, scarcely mollified, “in future, be on time for morning duty. I have need of you today.” He frowned. “And the Hermit, who I see is with you.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Reynard cleared his throat. “What’s our duty?”

 

“William’s father wants to speak to the Hermit, and given that you have developed a good working relationship with the Hermit, I want you to attend, so we are kept up-to-date with any developments. Questions?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

De Chesney frowned again. “You have straw in your hair, Soldier.”

 

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

 

The Sheriff grunted. “Carry on,” he informed his men, and strolled out of the barracks.

 

“What was that about?” Reynard snapped at Hugo. “A sweetheart on the other side of the market. What did you say that for?”

 

“Well,” Hugo said, mildly. “Didn’t want him to know you had a sweetheart in Thorpe Woods, did I?”

 

Benoni and Reynard froze, not looking at each other.

 

“Look, it’s alright. I won’t tell anyone – nobody’s business. Besides, you two look like you need to break your fasts before you do anything else.”

 

“Yes, thanks,” muttered Reynard. Benoni shuffled, and said nothing, tugging his ear. Hugo grinned, and clapped him on the back.

 

“Come on. Eat, then go about your day’s business. We have pig this morning, so fill your bellies. The hermit here probably gets nothing but fish.”

 

 “Actually," Benoni blurted out before he could stop himself, "my … dog … catches rabbit for me sometimes.” Too late he bit the tip of his tongue -- although there was no law against the hunting of small creatures such as rabbits, the King owned the Forests of England, and it was utterly illegal to hunt game. To the wrong soldier the mere mention of hunting could result in suspicion being cast upon him.

  
  
Hugo, however, did not seem to be the wrong soldier. He nodded enthusiastically. “A dog, eh? I like dogs myself…”

 

Over a breakfast of bacon and fried bread and apples they discussed the relative merits of different breeds of hounds, and Hugo reminisced about his father’s hunting pack. And then it was time to go visit Wenstun.

~*~

 

Wenstun seemed to have aged, even since the funeral yesterday. He was in his early forties, but looked like he had reached his three score and ten. “I don’t know what to tell you,” the man said, tiredly. “If I could turn back the days and do it differently I would.”

 

“What happened?” Benoni asked, gently. He had explained to Reynard that he hadn’t had a chance to speak to Wenstun when he had been there earlier – the man had been completely taken up in caring for his family, including his catatonic wife. Now that Elvira was on her feet again, Wenstun had returned to work. At this moment he was folding untanned skins to take to the scraping frame. Benoni reached out, and helped him fold. Reynard stood watching, an unpleasant feeling tugging at him. This man had lost his son … but he had sold him too. It made Reynard feel sick.

 

“We didn’t just sell him.” Wenstun said, as though in answer to Reynard’s unspoken thoughts. They blurted out of him, as though they’d been building up in him like steam in a kettle. “I mean....”

 

“What do you mean?” Benoni was still gentle… frustratingly so.

 

“I mean … we knew the man. We didn’t just sell him to some stranger.”

 

“Didn’t you think three shillings was an awful lot of money?” Reynard said, his voice harsh. “What did you think he was going to do with him?”

 

“Peace, Rey.” Benoni spoke in mild tones, obviously to soothe the situation. “Let Wenstun talk.” He turned his attention back to the tanner. “You say you knew the man. Who was he?”

 

Wenstun knelt, turning his gaze away from Benoni as he started to tie up his bundles of skin. “Clowen,” he muttered. “Sigewif’s … friend.”

 

Something in Reynard’s heart stuttered. Clowen … wasn’t he the man who Sigewif had jilted Benoni for? The man who had passed her stolen goods, the man for whom she had literally stabbed Benoni in the back?

 

Benoni looked stricken. _S’blood. It’s the same man._

 

“Ben?” Reynard gentled his voice. “Is he the one you told me about … the … thief?”

 

“He wasn’t a thief,” Wenstun muttered. “He’s a cook. He works at the kitchens in the Bishop’s palace.”

 

“No,” Benoni said. “No, he doesn’t. He never did.” He paused to give Wenstun time to digest the information. The older man swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Quietly, Benoni persisted. “What did he tell you?”

 

“That … that William would be well fed, that he’d be able to bring us scraps when he was more settled at work, that he’d … that he’d….” The man’s shoulders were shaking. “That he’d be safe. That he’d never know hunger again.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“He’s not hungry now, is he?”

 

“Rey!” Benoni looked shocked by Reynard’s unexpected brutality. Reynard was shocked himself. He tried to reign in his anger, but couldn’t. His eyes felt hot as he stared at Benoni with fury.

 

“It’s true, isn’t it?” He heard the angry words pouring out of his mouth. “One less mouth for the family to feed –” he glanced at Wenstun with contempt “– and William’s safe in heaven now.”

 

Benoni turned, and gripped Reynard by the shoulders, hard. “The man’s grieving,” he hissed.

 

“The man sold his son.”

 

Benoni opened his mouth to protest further, but Wenstun interrupted him.

 

“Your friend is right,” he said. “We sold our son. And may God forgive us, we’re keeping the money. For the children we have left, that they don’t go hungry. What does that make me? A Judas, who sold my first born for three pieces of silver.” His face twisted. “I didn’t know I was selling him to the Jews.”

 

“You didn’t sell him to the Jews, you sold him to a Saxon thief,” Reynard sneered.

 

“So, Clowen betrayed us. He was an agent for the Jews. I’m sorry, Benoni. When you told us not to trust Clowen, all those years ago, we didn’t believe you. Who would have imagined this of him?”

 

“What kind of man buys a child?” Reynard spat out. “You should have realised what sort of man he was.”

 

“Children are apprenticed,” Benoni pointed out. “It’s not unusual.”

 

“The sum is.”

 

“No doubt the Jews could afford it,” Wenstun said bitterly.

 

“There is no reason to think Clowen brought William to the Jews,” Benoni said. “There were no ritualistic aspects to the killing –”

 

“Sigewif saw him go into the house of a Jew.” Wenstun set his jaw stubbornly.

 

“Did she say which Jew?” Reynard asked, his voice harsh. “Did she say what she was doing in Jewry?”

 

“She was in the market….”

 

“And she has the second sight, does she, that she saw what was happening through those narrow gates?”

 

“Sigewif saw it,” Wenstun said, “and has no reason to lie. She’s the boy’s aunt.”

 

Reynard opened his mouth to say something, but Benoni put his hand on his shoulder, gave him a pointed look. Reynard shook his head with frustration, but backed off.

 

“Indeed,” Benoni said. “I’m sorry to have questioned you, but as you know the Church is conducting an independent investigation.”

 

“Good. Because those Norman fiends won’t give us justice.” Wenstun threw a bitter look at Reynard. “Nor their lackies.”

 

“Come, let’s go.” Benoni’s grip tightened on Reynard’s shoulder, and he propelled him a few steps. After a moment Reynard went willingly. “God be with you, Wenstun,” Benoni said.

 

“And you, Benoni.” The man turned back to his bundles, hoisting them onto his shoulder, pointedly ignoring Reynard.

 

“What was that about?” Benoni asked once they were out of hearing distance. Reynard shrugged his shoulder free of Benoni’s grasp, and scowled.

 

“The man sold his child. You were treating him like he was a victim –”

 

“He is a victim. He and his whole family –”

 

“He _sold_ his _child,_ Ben. What kind of man sells his child?”

 

“A poor man,” Benoni said, suddenly looking tired of the whole situation. “And it wasn’t so simple. Many people accept remuneration for their children to be placed in good positions. Wenstun and Elivira must have thought God was smiling on them.”

 

“They should have realised something was wrong. The minute Clowen offered them three shillings they should have realised things were wrong –”

 

“They knew Clowen, or thought they did.”

 

“No. You’d told them the man was a thief, they knew Sigewif stabbed you –”

 

“No. They didn’t. I never told them.”

 

“You never … you never told them? What in God’s name did you tell them?”

 

Benoni’s face shut down, unreadable. “That I was set upon by bandits.”

 

“God’s blood, Ben. I understand why you didn’t tell the authorities, you explained that – but why didn’t you tell her family?”

 

“They would never have believed me.”

 

Reynard paused. Benoni had a point. Blood, after all, was thicker than water.

 

“Rey,” Benoni said, after a moment of silence. “Why were you so harsh with Wenstun?”

 

“I….” Reynard hesitated. The truth was, he didn’t quite know. Then, all of a sudden, he did. “He reminds me of my father. He looks like him – a hard worker, grey in his beard. But my father would never have done as Wenstun did. He has integrity.”

 

“He rejected you.”

 

“Yes – but I understand why. He lives by his principles, and would never forsake them. I simply don’t understand how anyone could have accepted money for a child.”

 

“Poverty and hunger lead to worse things.”

 

“My father is poor,” Reynard bit off, tersely. “And we were often hungry.” He thought of the times he’d tried to bring food to his family, and how his father had driven him from the door. In the end Reynard gave up – his mother was dead, his siblings grown to working age, or married off. And with the exception of his mother, the whole family had taken his father’s side.

 

“You love your father, don’t you?” Benoni put an arm around his waist and squeezed.

 

“Of course I do,” Reynard said, and realised that his anger had fled, leaving only misery behind.

 

“I’m sorry,” Benoni said, and turned toward him, kissed him on the corner of his mouth. “It must hurt.”

 

Reynard turned into Benoni’s embrace, and let his head fall on his shoulder. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, it does.” Benoni stroked circles of comfort on his back. Finally Reynard broke their hug, taking Benoni’s hand as he did so. “Come,” he said. “We need to tell the Sherriff what we know about Clowen.”

 

“And we still need to confront Sigewif.”

 

“Yes,” Reynard agreed. “That too.”

~*~

 

Shmuel ben Elias was shaking by the time he got through the market place to the Castle. For the last two days the gates had been shut during day time, and although food supplies weren’t running low yet, they would. This morning Moishe, one of the foremost doctors of the community, had returned with a cut lip and black eye from visiting a Gentile. The old man refused to accuse anyone – Shmuel was almost certain that he was protecting his patient.

 

Finally, after much discussion amongst the community Shmuel’s father made the decision that they would approach the Castle, and remind the Normans that they had come to England under the protection of the King. The lot fell upon Shmuel, as he had felt somehow it would. He smiled at his father and nodded silently. Shmuel was a man of few words.

 

“Go well, my Son,” the Rabbi said, and laid his hand on his son’s head. Shmuel accepted the blessing, and then, with no further preamble, left.

 

He had expected hostile glares as he stepped beyond the gates – he hadn’t expected to be immediately jeered at. He flinched to one side as a stone whizzed past his ear, striking the rapidly closing gates behind him.

 

“Christ killer,” one woman called. “Baby murderer,” another.

 

This wasn’t a crowd of hostile enemies … it was a group of women milling around the market, doing their grocery shopping. Despite everything that he had heard over the last few days, their viciousness shocked him.

 

“Step back,” a Norman captain pushed his way through the market stalls, roughly shouldering the women out of his way. “Nothing to see here.” He gestured, and a row of soldiers stepped out from the walls, and arranged themselves around Shmuel. The captain then looked at him with resentment and asked, “where to, Master?”

 

“The Castle,” Shmuel stuttered, wondering what he’d done to offend the man. The captain was a Norman, and thus, technically, should be on his side.

 

“You hear him,” the captain said. “We’ll take our good Jew to the Castle.”

 

Shmuel hunched his shoulders up and walked with the soldiers, wondering if they were his protectors or his guards. One thing he’d learned in recent days – Gentiles could turn against you very easily. Even Norman soldiers under orders from the King.

~*~

 

De Chesney was having a bad day. He’d heard back from his Saxon man and the Hermit, and at this very moment was trying to figure out how to track the movements of a malfeasant called Clowen. He knew already it was hopeless. Maybe, he thought, one day we’ll have this savage country properly organised, and murderers won’t be able to escape by crossing into another county. He shook his head, looking at the maps, the deep forests in which villains could hide. Not likely. It didn’t help that the local population would automatically believe the word of a Saxon over a Norman. If he were to find Clowen red-handed in another murder, the people would still say ‘Norman conspiracy’.

 

So, when Shmuel ben Elias presented himself with his request, de Chesney didn’t need much persuasion at all. No sooner had Shmuel presented the petition (carefully signed by every adult man in Jewry) than de Chesney was nodding and getting to his feet. The table he worked at was cluttered with days’ worth of clerical nonsense, but he left it all and stepped down from the raised dais in order to read the document attentively.

 

“You’re right,” he said, “of course. You did come to England under the King’s Protection, and it will be easier to protect you if you’re here at the Castle.”

Shmuel blinked. “It’s that easy?”

 

“That easy. Go home, and get your people ready. We’ll take you out tonight.”

 

At least one of the day’s decisions was easy to make. De Chesney sighed. Now he had a killer to catch.

~*~

 

Reluctantly, Benoni accepted the fact that he had finished his investigative duties to the Sheriff and the Church. He could find no further excuse to linger at the Castle. Truth be told, he was ashamed of himself for having lingered so long. Although he had no ‘duties’ in the woods other than those he imposed upon himself, he had spent too long trailing around after Reynard. He realised that if he wasn’t careful people might notice his infatuation … and that would do neither himself nor Reynard any good at all.

 

So it was with a heavy heart that he decided to return to his lonely hut in the forest clearing. Reynard had been called away on duty several hours ago, and he really couldn’t justify waiting any longer for him. He would have to hope that, since Reynard knew where he lived, he would find him. Of course, he knew where Reynard lived … but would he be welcome again? Reynard had joked about it, but one of his comrades had already guessed at their relationship. Would Reynard really want to live under the threat of being named _argr?_ It was a double-edged sword. One member of a male couple was always accused of being the ‘female’ in the relationship, and therefore an abomination. If it came to that, Benoni would insist that he was the receiver rather than the giver and face the penalty … but he wasn’t sure that Reynard would let him. Whatever happened, it could be ugly….

 

The soldiers were milling around, getting ready to transport the local Jews and their goods to the Castle, and Reynard was nowhere to be found. Now would be a good time to leave….

 

Reynard came running down the gangway across the moat, and grabbed Benoni by the shoulder. “Ben, sorry … I nearly missed you.”

 

“I understand.” His throat was tight, but he managed to squeeze the words out calmly enough. “You have your duty to attend to.”

 

“Yes … but we got rushed – I meant to say goodbye, and … you know.…” he blushed. “Ask to see you again.”

 

Benoni smiled. “I have to catch up with some garden work, and medicinal preparations, but other than that my time is free.”

 

“So, uh … if I come over when my watch is finished, you’ll be….”

 

“I’ll be delighted.” Benoni touched Reynard’s fingertips with his own and dropped his voice. “Go carefully, my love.”

 

At the word ‘love’ Reynard’s face brightened. Benoni felt himself flush at his own foolishness, and pulled the cowl up over his head before scurrying through the muddy street which circled the Castle. After a while he risked glancing back, hopeful that Reynard was still watching him. He’d gone. Benoni sighed, and walked on.

~*~

That was … abrupt. No sooner had Reynard’s heart leapt at the word ‘love’ than it fell as Benoni turned, swiftly, and retreated through the rain. Reynard stared at Benoni’s rapidly disappearing back, feeling hurt, though he did understand his lover’s sudden reticence. _I’ve got to stop wearing my heart on my face,_ he thought, _I probably scared him off with a stupid smile. Hugo already knows. At this rate, everyone will._

Cursing himself for having no self-control he turned and rejoined his unit of ten while the captains walked up and down the ranks assigning the duties of the soldiers. The Sheriff was pulling out all the stops tonight – the Castle itself was to be guarded by a skeleton staff – and it didn’t escape Reynard’s attention that there was a higher than usual percentage of Saxons remaining at the Castle.

 

 _They don’t trust us,_ he thought bitterly. _They think we’ve all got something against the Jews and can’t follow orders._

 

Maybe some of his countrymen felt that way, but he didn’t, and he resented the implication. Still – it did mean that the Jews were going to be safer as they made their little pilgrimage to the Castle. It wasn’t going to take long. The local population would want to avoid the dark and rain as much as he did, so while the timing of the removal made sense, the rain itself was a godsend. _Maybe literally,_ he thought, looking up at the sky. He didn’t believe such things, but sometimes he wanted to.

 

He wanted to believe that he had stumbled upon Benoni for a reason … that it was part of … what had Benoni called it? Something greater than himself, something he could take comfort in.

 

Tonight, when his shift was over, and the Jews were safely sheltered in the castle, he would go – no matter the weather or risk, to see Benoni, and take his comfort there. Benoni he could believe in.

~*~

Benoni’s hut smelled of wet wolf, and he stepped carefully over his indolent guest and started lighting the fire. The Wolf lifted his head and then snaked his tail back and forth in pack-member greeting. He had brought a pheasant – it lay between his front paws as an offering.

 

“Thank you,” he told the Wolf, not yet stroking him. Much though they played in daytime, it was never wise to touch such a creature too soon after the hunting. He would make sure that the Wolf had the best of the bones and guts as his due.

 

Benoni settled next to the fire pit, and got it going again. He’d left it several days, and the ground was damp where the rain had fallen in through the smoke hole. Benoni shook his head, furious with himself, and pretending that it was to do with his neglect of his hut and garden. By touch, more than by sight, he started to pluck the pheasant. He should have been here … to tend his garden, to check the medicines he had preparing on the shelf….

 

No. It wasn’t that. He couldn’t keep up the pretence. He was angry with his own passions. He had to control them better if he wasn’t to get Reynard in trouble. There were places and communities where homosocial contracts were tolerated – but Saxon England, even under the Normans, was not one of them. Reynard had joked about it, but a man accused of _argr_ had no choice but to respond instantly with murderous violence, or the accusation would stick. And the penalty would be death – probably by stoning. _Yet, knowing that, I uttered the word ‘love’ just outside the Castle Bailey. I’m a fool…._

Knowing that he’d made love within the Castle grounds.

 

_Oh, God forgive me, I’m going to get him killed…._

 

It was one thing to hold hands – many Saxon men did, and the lower classes of Normans had picked up the habit from them. Friendship, kinship – that was one thing. But the way he had touched Reynard’s fingers, spoke of ‘love’ – a blind man could see it.

 

He was going to have to get a grip on his emotions, and decide what to do. He couldn’t carry on risking Reynard’s life like this – he had little care for his own, but he couldn’t bear to think of that beautiful body, and the even more beautiful soul which inhabited it, being battered or destroyed because he, Benoni, was so in love with being in love that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

 

 _I am going to have to leave,_ he thought, and his heart broke within him. _No, I won’t leave … not this time._

_This time?_ He blinked, sharply. That made no sense …  he had no idea why he thought he’d left Reynard before, or why he felt he’d broken both their hearts. Fanciful imaginings … not dissimilar from those he’d had with Sigewif, when he felt he had known her forever. Perhaps Aristotle was wise when he spoke of the transmigration of souls….

 

Perhaps. But that didn’t stop the problem. In his immediate infatuation with Reynard he hadn’t been thinking. What future could he have with a Saxon soldier? When he first loved Sigewif, the solution was simple – leave the church and marry the woman. Well, that was no solution here. The Normans barely acknowledged it existed, though some religious communities accepted it. He had heard also that in Ireland such marriages were smiled upon – but he could scarcely ask Reynard to run away with him to Ireland or France.

 

“I’ll have to talk to him, tonight,” he muttered.

 

“Talk to whom, lover?”

 

Benoni turned his head, sharply, to the voice, and felt his heart lurch sickeningly in his chest. The Wolf stood up, eyes narrowing and tail pointing straight back.

 

In the firelight her face was ruddier than its normal unblemished cream, and her hair seemed darker. She was soaking wet, holding back the door flap and letting the rain drive in. He knew he should let her in, offer her the one stool he had at his disposal – but –

 

“Sigewif,” he said, his voice cold. He paid ostentatious attention to the work of gutting the pheasant. “What are you doing here?”

 

She stepped a little ways inside the door, uninvited. “I hear that you’ve been investigating the death of my William….” The Wolf moved to Benoni’s side, hackles raised.  Sigewif paused,  looking at the Wolf, who responded to her gaze with a low growl.

 

“He’s not your William. He was Elvira’s.” Benoni felt a tide of revulsion rush up in him, as he recognised Sigewif’s tendency to lay claim to everything and everyone around her. She had always been jealous of her sister’s marriage, her sister’s family. Benoni had tried to blind himself to it, and paid the price.

 

“He was my nephew,” she said. “Whatever else you may think of me, whatever … whatever is between us, you know that much. William was family. I’d never hurt anyone I loved.”

 

“You said once that you loved me.”

 

“Still do,” she murmured, taking another step towards Benoni. Her mouth softened to a slight pout. “You’ve been … spreading rumours about me.” As she moved closer, the Wolf’s ears swivelled forward and up.

 

“No. I’ve been examining evidence, and –”

 

“You think I’m hiding something.” She stepped a little closer. “You don’t think I’d do anything to hurt William, do you?”

 

Benoni stood, letting the pheasant feathers tumble from his lap. “I….”  How could he say it? Yes? He knew that it was a man who had killed William, but Sigewif was somehow involved.

 

“You’re covering for him, again,” he said, the bitter truth hitting him. “Clowen. You maybe didn’t want William to die, but you knew he was the kind of child Clowen was attracted to, you thought you could enrich the family a little by selling him. When you discovered what he’d done, how far he’d gone, you came out with this story about the Jews.”

 

“Since when were you such a lover of Jews? _Benoni.”_ She said his name with a peculiar emphasis. “Perhaps there is something you want to hide, living in these woods as you do.” Sigewif looked again at the Wolf, whose whole body quivered with barely contained tension. His bared teeth glinted in the firelight. She sneered, “I see you still have your Familiar.”

 

A flutter of panic rose in Benoni’s chest, then was quickly repressed. “You know as well as I do, that the Wolf is simply a friend.”

 

“Oh, yes. Very touching. He saved you in the winter, when you broke your leg in the woods. Dragged you back to your hut.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And he’s been saving you ever since.” Her smile was cold, and he remembered….

 

Remembered when he thought she loved him. Remembered when he thought he’d loved her.

 

“I’ll not come any further,” she said. “I can tell when I’m not welcome.”

 

Benoni turned his face back to the fire, and made a point of not watching her go. When he was sure, by sound, that she had left, he took a handful of feathers. He prayed for a moment – a request that God banish evil – then threw the feathers on the fire. They blackened and flew up, red clinging to the edges, before drifting back down and subsiding into ash. Benoni blushed at his own superstition, but felt better. The ugly smell of burning passed, and he put down the metal basin full of the pheasant’s  innards. The Wolf lapped it up hungrily, while Benoni stood to hang the pheasant from the ceiling. Perhaps if Reynard visited he could cook him something special….

 

 _No. Don’t distract yourself._ He shook his head sternly. Trouble was coming, and he had to keep Reynard out of it. He wasn’t going to tell him about Sigewif.

 

He had his answer about Sigewif and her knowledge of Clowen’s involvement. He knew who the murderer was – had known from the moment he saw those deep bruises on the boy’s skin, the sheer size of the man’s handspan.

 

He closed his eyes, wincing at the memory of his own helplessness under those hands. He remembered when they found him, stabbed in the back, it was easy for him to lie and say he’d been attacked by robbers – Clowen had beaten him just as he’d beaten William.

 

But Clowen had moved on. Little boys didn’t fight back. Benoni felt suddenly sick.

 

Yes. He knew who the killer was. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

~*~

 _So,_ Sigewif thought, as she left Benoni’s hut. _He’s beyond my reach._ The realisation rose like bile in her throat – time was all she’d have to do to seduce him was glance his way. Even after everything that had passed between them, he’d protected her, lied for her. She had thought … well, she had hoped.

 

What had she hoped, that he still loved her? Perhaps. She hadn’t expected him to hate her. And yet he literally turned a cold shoulder to her, turned his back on her, as though she didn’t matter – as though they had never been lovers. As though he didn’t even fear her.

 

He should have feared her, after what had happened. She thought of the scar on his back, the plunge-thud as she stabbed him – the surge of strange joy followed by terror at what she had done.

 

Feelings. She remembered _feelings_ for him – terrible and new. Most days she felt nothing at all.

 

She had thought, once, that what she felt for Benoni might be love – she wasn’t an expert on love though. Oh, she was expert at what it looked like in others, she could imitate it easily. But it was a mystery what people meant when they spoke of it. To her, it had always been a means to bind someone to her, to use them, rather than be used by them.

 

And now he was unbindable, unbiddable.

 

He didn’t love her, but she would make him fear her again.

 

She paused, gathering her energy to climb the hill, when she heard something. Someone was coming down in the dark. She held her breath, and listened.

~*~

 

“That’s the last time I come out in this weather,” Reynard muttered as he scrambled down the muddy slope. He was wet through, and filthy – fortunately not in his uniform, or his captain would have had his hide, but still … cold enough to be miserable, muddy enough to wonder what on earth Benoni was going to think when he traipsed through the door.

 

 _Maybe he won’t want to see me so soon,_ he thought, suddenly insecure. _I know it sounded like an invitation, but maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me every day…._  

 

No. He remembered Benoni touching his fingers. _‘I’d be delighted,’_ he had said. Reynard relaxed as he found his footing in the dark. This was going to be good. He knew it….

 

“And who would you be?” came a voice out of the darkness.

 

“Hello?” Reynard paused. A female voice. Dangerous for anyone to be out in the woods at night, let alone a woman. His heart sank. If she was alone he was going to have to escort her back. “Do you need any assistance?”

 

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said. Something in her voice was familiar, and Reynard felt his skin crawl. He’d heard her voice before – once in the Great Hall when she first accused the Jews, the second time distantly, her words thinned out by the wind. She was the speaker outside St. Peter’s, the sympathetic sister with the dead eyes….

 

Sigewif. Sigewif the liar. Sigewif the bitch. The woman who stabbed his Ben in the back.

 

“I’m sure you are,” Reynard said, squinting in the poor light to make out the woman’s face. Impossible – his eyes were weak anyway, and with the rain obscuring everything all he could make out was shape and silhouettes. She was a pillar of darkness against the night. Automatically he made the sign against the evil eye. Her eyesight was obviously better than his, because she laughed as he cupped his left hand to snatch any curse from the air, and cast the ‘whatever’ behind him.

 

“You think I’m a witch then?”

 

“I think you’re a bitch,” he declared.

 

She laughed again. “It has been said.” She paused for a moment, then mused. “You and Benoni. What are you doing visiting him at this time of night? The weather is not exactly conducive to a midnight stroll.”

 

“You’re strolling in it.”

 

“Yes. Yes, I am. And my business is my business.”

 

“You know who killed William, don’t you?”

 

“You want to be careful what you say, soldier.” She spat the word out, as most Saxons did, as though it were a curse. “Who do you think people will believe? You? A Norman-loving traitor? Or me …” her voice changed as though she was grieving “… the poor bereaved aunt?”

 

Reynard stood for a moment, trying to think of something to say, but he was frozen by the woman’s malice. It radiated off her in palpable waves – “witch,” he finally stuttered. “I think you’re a witch.”

 

She laughed a third time. “Witch,” she said. “I like that.”

 

He stood aside as she stepped forward. In the dim light he could barely see the curve of her cheek as she smiled. She passed him then, and he shuddered as she made her own way up the muddy slope.

 

What the hell had she been doing here? With a feeling of anxiety in the pit of his stomach Reynard started walking again, hurrying despite the darkness, feeling his way blind through the trees.

 

Finally he stumbled into the clearing, where a slight glow was visible along the edges of the doorway. Gratefully he hastened toward it. Sigewif had been in the neighbourhood, and he was sure she had a grudge against Benoni. Reynard felt it urgently, the need to touch Benoni, to make sure that he was okay – that nothing had happened to him – that the witch hadn’t harmed him somehow….

 

“Ben,” he called, “Ben!”

 

The door flap was pushed back, and light poured out. Benoni stood silhouetted in the red glow of the fire, and gestured for Reynard to come in. He did so, shaking himself like a dog before he realised he was making a mess of Benoni’s habitation.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“I’m used to it.” Benoni jerked his chin at the Wolf, who was lying by the fire pit with the satisfied look of a beast well fed. The Wolf smiled at Rey in the manner of his kind, with relaxed open mouth and tongue lolling out; his tail swished in friendly greeting and then he dropped his head contentedly between his paws again. “Come, you’re wet through.” Benoni started fussing over Reynard, removing his heavy cloak. He didn’t look as though anyone had harmed him. “Sit down, let me get your boots off.”

 

Reynard complied, grinning. “You know, you’d make a wonderful mother.”

 

“You’d send me down in grey hairs to my grave.”

 

Reynard barked out laughter, even though there was a pang of pain in his heart. His own mother had made the same joke.

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me so soon,” he admitted when he’d stopped laughing. “I thought, you know, you might want to do Hermit things without me as your shadow.”

 

“I can do ‘Hermit things’ as you call them with you as easily as without.” Carefully Benoni draped Reynard’s cloak over the three-legged stool. “It’s mainly minding the garden, gathering ingredients from the forest, and making medicines. Answering calls to the sick.” He cleared his throat. “You could be my apprentice.”

 

Reynard felt a quick surge of hope, and forgot all about Sigewif. “You think so?”

 

Benoni sat back, crossing his legs. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted, and ducked his head with a shy smile. “But….” he trailed off, and rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, in a gesture already familiar to Reynard. “You’re old for an apprentice, and you’re a soldier. How long is your service for?”

 

“I renew it once a year.” Reynard had thought of signing up for life, but the part of him that yearned to reconcile with his father wouldn’t let him. Besides … he wasn’t very good at killing people. He’d had to do it twice, and it gave him nightmares. “Maybe I could tell them that I want to learn how to doctor – that I could serve in the army that way.”

 

“Maybe.” Benoni sounded doubtful again. “I don’t know.”

 

“What, don’t you want me?” Reynard protested with mock disappointment.

 

“Of course I want you.” Benoni cuffed him playfully on the shoulder. “I just worry that we have to be careful. I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

 

“Well, neither do I. Want anyone to hurt you I mean. I mean … I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

 

“Soldiering seems a poor career choice then,” Benoni smiled, taking the sting out of the words. “Perhaps it is time for a change. How long do you have to wait for your contract to be over?”

 

“Eight months.” Too long a time….

 

“I could offer my services to the Castle as a medical practitioner.” Benoni coughed. “So far I’ve only been approached by locals, but I have a good reputation, I believe. And your Sheriff seems to approve of my work.”

 

Reynard felt his breath catch in his throat … this might really happen. If they did this right, he might have a legitimate reason to be around Benoni. “And then, after eight months is up, you take me on as your apprentice?”

 

Benoni beamed for a moment, a flash of teeth glinting in the firelight. Then his smile faded. “Maybe we’re just dreaming. There are so many things that might go wrong. People might look at us and wonder who’s the woman….”

 

“Oh, well. That’s easy. You’re the woman.”

 

Benoni choked on laughter. “Don’t say that too loud. And besides, it’s not even true.”

 

“No, face it Ben, you’re the woman. You cook, you tend garden, you mother me….”

 

“I do this,” Benoni growled, and leant forward snatching Reynard’s head between his hands. “And then I do this.” He leant forward and kissed him, snagging Reynard’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucking. “And then I do this….”

 

Reynard pulled his head back, laughing. “Mind the Wolf. S’blood … I never thought I’d say that.”

 

“The Wolf is fine. Come back here.”

 

Reynard slid his arms around the broad shoulders of his lover. “Gladly,” he said.

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought there was something he’d been going to talk to Benoni about. But whatever it was, it could wait.

~*~

 

Benoni woke to the sound of low growling. Reynard was lying on top of him. They were so tangled up in each other that Benoni couldn’t immediately tell where his limbs were, which leg or arm belonged to whom. He shifted, and pins and needles started, which solved the problem. “Ow,” he muttered, and started slapping his arms to get some life back into them.

 

“Wha…?” Reynard mumbled, and rolled, reaching out for Benoni again. “S’cold,” he muttered. “Lie back down.”

 

“Hush … there’s something outside.”

 

“You live in a wood, there’s always something outside.” Reynard sounded as though he was making a joke, but he sat up all the same, rubbing his eyes. Benoni was already standing, still naked, listening intently. Outside he could hear the creaking of trees – a normal sound, but also rustling that did not sound animal. More than one heavy tread, pacing around the hut.

 

“We’re surrounded,” Benoni whispered. “There are men outside, booted. Probably soldiers.”

 

“Shit.” Reynard started scrambling for his clothes just as the Wolf snarled and burst out the door flap. There was a cry from the other side, and cursing – Benoni opened the door, to see a soldier, bleeding, and the Wolf, snarling at him with a full showing of teeth.

 

“No,” Benoni cried out, and seized the Wolf by his ruff. He wrestled him back, then knelt, and grasping the Wolf’s head he spoke directly to him in Latin. _“I! Cure!”_

 

The Wolf shook his head, fiercely. Benoni locked eyes with him. “Go now,” he said, in his native French. “We will meet again.” The Wolf whined an objection, but Benoni held his gaze. “Go.”

 

Tail lowered and ears folded back, the Wolf went.

~*~

 

 

Reynard tugged his tunic over his head, but didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes.  Blinking against the slow dawning light he stepped out of the hut into…

 

_What the hell is going on?_

 

Benoni was flat on the ground, one soldier kneeling on the small of his back, while another bound his wrists, and a third held a sword against his throat. One man sat bleeding from the arm, his back against a tree, and … the next thing Reynard knew, he was being wrestled to the ground himself. He struggled, cursing, and was rewarded with the flat end of a sword across his back, and a violent kick to the stomach.

 

“Stay silent.”

 

When he stopped wheezing from the blows he managed to gasp, “What in God’s name are you people doing?”

 

“Arresting a witch,” his assailant said, then looked closely at Reynard, releasing one of his hands in surprise. “And what in God’s name are _you_ doing here?”

 

 _Oh wonderful. It’s Antoine._ The Norman soldier Antoine -- who despised Saxons, and despised Reynard in particular -- smiled with a malicious satisfaction. “So it’s Reynard, is it?”

 

Benoni broke in before Reynard could say anything. “He was visiting me to have his wound dressed.” Reynard’s free hand flew up to his bandage … he had almost forgotten about that. He opened his mouth to protest, then realised he couldn’t think of a better excuse for his presence.

 

Benoni was lying next to him, flat on his face, covered in mud and blood … his blood?

 

“Did they hurt you?” Stupid question, of course they hurt him. Already in the dawn light Reynard could see bruises blossoming on Benoni’s skin.

 

“Not my blood,” Benoni tried to reassure him.

 

The soldier, the one sitting down – of course. The Wolf must have gone for him. The guy was lucky he hadn’t had his throat torn out.  Reynard tried to shuffle closer to Benoni, then froze. Such a gesture might kill them both.

 

“Don’t talk to the witch,” Antoine warned him, nudging him with his foot.

 

“What do you mean, witch,” Reynard blustered. “The man’s a herb doctor.”

 

“I saw him, with my own eyes,” Antoine said. “First a wolf came out, attacked my man, and then there _he_ was, naked. The man is a shapeshifter.”

 

Reynard stared up at him, and started laughing.  “I never took you for an idiot, Antoine. Of course he didn’t turn into a wolf.”

 

Antoine’s face went tight, pale in the dawning light. “We’ll have to take you in for questioning as well.”

 

 _Oh great._ “You finished kicking me? You want to tie me up too?”

 

“I think we’ll trust you to walk.” Antoine sneered. “But one false move, and we’ll kill you.”

_That’s what I get for visiting Benoni without my sword,_ Reynard thought bitterly. It mightn’t have made much difference, but he felt helpless without his weapon. It wasn’t his sword – technically it belonged to the King, and if he wasn’t on the King’s business, the sword remained in barracks. _If I survive this,_ he promised himself, _the first thing I’ll do will be buy a saex, and who cares if it’s barely legal? Other people have them … never thought I’d need one._

 

Of course, the short sword wouldn’t have done him much good against six men – but it would make him feel better.

 

“There’s no need to take Reynard in,” Benoni interrupted. He sounded amazingly calm under the circumstances. “He only came to have his dressing changed.”

 

“At this time of the morning?”

 

“Indeed. He wanted to be back early for duty.”

 

Antoine paused, looking surly.

 

“The Hermit might be telling the truth, Sir,” one of the other soldiers muttered.

 

“He still turned into a wolf and attacked one of my men.”

 

“Speaking of which,” Benoni said, “I have my medicines and dressings in the hut. The … the dog you saw has a nasty bite, but he was trying to warn, not kill. If you let me clean the wound now –”

 

“What, you think I’m stupid?” Antoine scoffed. “You’ll put an enchantment on him.” He turned his head to one of his men. “You. Dress Pierre’s wound, and follow on behind. Quickly.” He turned to Reynard, and narrowed his eyes. “Soldier. I have an order for you.”

 

“Yes, Sir?” Reynard managed, barely, to keep the irritation from his voice.

 

“Stand up.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Reynard stood, and swayed.

 

“About this man you call your friend?”

 

“Yes, Sir?”

 

“Strike him.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Strike him. Kick him, spit on him, thrown stones. I don’t care what. Now. Across the face.”

 

For a moment Reynard was dumbfounded. _He wants me to what?_

“Now.”

 

“Why, when you’ve already got him down?”

 

“Perhaps you’ve been enchanted, or perhaps you’re his accomplice. I need to see that you’re on our side.”

 

“Look, I won’t, just I’m not going to kick a man who’s down.” Reynard tilted his head, glaring defiantly at Antoine. “If we’re under arrest, bring us to the Sheriff. Witchcraft is a civil offense; he’ll have to deal with it eventually.”

 

“Eventually.” Antoine gave a vindictive little smile. “Tie this one up as well,” he told his men. “He’s obviously not to be trusted.”

 

Reynard knew better than to fight, but, as usual, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “If anyone’s been enchanted by a witch it’s you. You’ve been listening to that Sigewif woman, haven’t you? I thought it was us Saxons who were meant to be stupid….”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Rey,” Benoni warned him, sotto voce. “Careful.”

 

“And you shut up too.” Antoine kicked Benoni in the gut, and Reynard pulled against his captors.

 

“Leave him alone you whoreson dogs!”

 

Antoine pivoted on his heel, and struck Reynard in the face. Reynard jerked back between the soldiers who held him. They tightened their grip on him as Antoine beat him senseless.

~*~

 

“You what?”

 

“We arrested them, Sir.”

 

“You arrested one of my soldiers, and a Hermit who has been nothing but helpful throughout this whole investigation?”

 

“Uhm … yes, Sir. There was an accusation of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft? And, if I may ask, which one’s alleged to be the witch? Christ’s Holy Hermit, or my obedient soldier?”

 

De Chesney had his suspicions … the Hermit did seem rather an odd individual … but he wasn’t about to give Antoine any encouragement. The man was altogether too full of himself as it was. Besides which, de Chesney had nothing against witchcraft in and of itself – for one thing, he didn’t believe in it, and for another, most alleged witches seemed harmless, and to be using whatever skills they had innocently enough. 

 

“Well then, speak up. Who’s the witch?”

 

“Uhm … the Hermit.”

 

“And, what trustworthy citizen made this allegation?”

 

“Sigewif, the aunt of….”

 

“Sigewif. I could have guessed.” De Chesney let out a sigh. “Soldier,” he said, “do you have any idea what’s been going on? Sigewif is implicated in the child’s murder. She is suspected of covering up evidence.”

 

Antoine blinked, looking puzzled.  “But….”

 

“But what? Don’t tell me you believe her nonsense about the Jews?”

 

“But it was their Sabbath,” Antoine pointed out. “And they were seen painting blood over their doorways….”

 

“Of course they were. It’s the Passover feast. They sacrifice a lamb, and paint the blood over the door, because … oh, I don’t know, it’s complicated. Something to do with escaping from Egypt. The point is, they do it every year and unless you have some objection to eating lamb, then I scarcely see the problem. You’re not one of those idiots who eats nothing but beans and barley are you?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

“Good. I have enough on my plate without crackpot Cathars in my ranks.” 

 

“Sorry, Sir. But … I did see him change shape. The Hermit I mean.”

 

“You did, did you?”

 

“Yes, Sir. First he was a wolf, and attacked one of my men. Then he was a man again –”

 

“What are you? A Celt? Or maybe just an old woman? Nobody else believes those stories anymore.”

 

“Sir, I saw it with my own eyes.”

 

 “Well.” Ostentatiously de Chesney leaned across the table and sniffed the soldier’s breath. “You don’t seem drunk. So you saw something, but as to what it was, I will investigate that myself.”

 

“Sir, be careful.”

 

“Careful?”

 

“Yes, Sir. We think he enchanted the Saxon. When he was tending his wound, we think.”

 

“I see.” De Chesney gave a great and gusty sigh. “It is confirmed. You really are an old woman.”

 

Antoine’s face went pink, but he carried on with determination. “There are precautions we should take….”

 

“Oh, shut up, Soldier. Take what precautions you will for yourself. I’ll take my own precautions and make my own mind up.”

 

“Very good, Sir.”

 

De Chesney huffed out a dismissive sound and sent Antoine away.

~*~

 

When Reynard came to his senses in the Dungeon, he saw the guard stationed there, and then he saw  Benoni and…

 

_Oh God … Benoni … he was…_

 

Benoni was still naked, but his normally milk-pale skin was marred with bruises, blues and purples blossoming across his abdomen and chest. Blood ran freely from a head wound.

 

While Reynard had been unconscious someone – or more probably several someones – had battered Benoni bloody and raw. Reynard tried to sit up, and the guard kicked him in the shin.

 

“Stay still, if you know what’s good for you,” the guard hissed. “We know he’s a witch, not so sure about you.”

 

“He’s not a….”

 

“You would say that.” The guard backed out of the cell, sprinkling a line of salt by the door. “We’ll see what happens when the Bishop gets here.”

 

Bishop? But witchcraft had nothing to do with canon law … unless ….

 

Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad. Why would the Church get involved, unless….

 

Unless the bitch implicated Benoni in William’s murder. Benoni was a religious after all, even if solitary. The Church would have to investigate.

 

“S’blood.…”

 

The guard slammed the door, and drew the locks. Clunk, clunk, clunk as the bolts slid into place.

 

Benoni, to Reynard’s left-hand side, groaned.

 

“Ben? Ben?”

 

Damnation, he was just out of reach. Reynard made as if to move, but the lingering pain of the beating stilled him. Oh God. He ached all over. “Ben, can you hear me?”

 

Benoni stopped groaning, and Reynard’s heart stuttered, nearly petrified, as he listened for Ben’s breathing in the dark. _Please don’t die,_ he thought, _please … please don’t die._

~*~

 

Benoni opened his eyes to darkness. For a moment he thought he was blind – then he noticed the light filtering through a crack at the bottom of … well, he assumed it was a door. He wasn’t sure of much. His head pounded with pain, and it hurt to breathe. He shut his eyes again, and drifted. He had no idea how he’d gotten here … or where “here” was.

 

Next time he woke he was thirsty. He was cold. He was aware that he was naked.

 

When he woke a third time, he tried to move but was overcome by dizziness and then blackness.

 

“Ben,” a voice whispered. “Ben?”

 

When he woke again he heard someone breathing in the darkness next to him. It should have frightened him, but the sound was familiar. He turned his head toward the sound, and tried to remember. Safety – he remembered that breath, that touch and warmth, that comfort in the dark.

 

“Rey….” He reached out blindly, grasping for the hand that, somehow, he knew was there. Long slender fingers twined through his, and he let out a sigh of relief.

 

“Ben.”

 

“Where are we?”

 

“In the Castle Dungeons.”

 

“What are we doing here?”

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

Uselessly, Benoni shook his head, then groaned at the motion. “No,” he said. “There’s something wrong with my head….”

 

“Ben, I’m sorry – I should have told you. I saw Sigewif in the woods, before I saw you. I should have realised she’d try to hurt you.”

 

“Sigewif….” Ben remembered. A smell of burning feathers. “She came to see me.”

 

“And you didn’t say anything?” Reynard’s voice was sharp for a moment, then he sighed. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t say anything either. Maybe she’s the witch. Maybe she enchanted us.”

 

“Witch? What are you talking about?” Ben was still struggling to remember. “The Wolf –” he panicked for a moment, remembering men with swords. “Did they kill him?”

 

“No, Ben. He’s safe.”

 

“Thank God.”

 

Reynard’s laugh was sour. “Not much to thank Him for, is there? Not while we’re prisoners accused of witchcraft.”

 

“We’re alive,” Benoni said, trying to communicate a confidence he didn’t feel. “You’re alive.”

 

“How much longer?”

 

Silence fell. Benoni tried, and failed, to think of something encouraging to say. “I’m sorry, Reynard,” he said in the end. “This is my fault. I should never have dragged you into it….”

 

“Into what?”

 

“My mess of a life. Every time I love someone it ends in violence and pain.”

 

“Who says this is ended?”

 

“True enough.” Benoni was warmed, despite himself, by his partner’s fiercely defiant optimism. 

 

They waited in the dark.

~*~

 

The next time the door creaked open, Reynard couldn’t rightly make out the men who entered the cell … or what they carried with them. After such an absence of light, even a dim light was overwhelming. It wasn’t till a voice spoke that he recognised Antoine.

 

“Put the barrel down anywhere and get the Hermit on his feet!”

 

Reynard gathered what little strength he had in his aching body, preparing to lunge protectively in front of Benoni, but his soft grunt of pain alerted Antoine to his half-risen position.

 

“And keep the Saxon away from him!”

 

Two of Antoine’s men hoisted Benoni to his feet while another two pushed Reynard flat against the floor and kept him down where he could not see what was happening to Ben.

 

Rey didn’t yet know the purpose of the barrel -- the water-filled barrel -- but Benoni knew : trial by water for detecting a witch. In the moment before they dunked him and held him under, he expelled all the air from his lungs and then inhaled deeply but not too deeply, allowing his chest muscles a degree of relaxation.

 

Seconds passed underwater for Benoni. He held himself still and concentrated on slowing his heart rate.

 

“Ben? Ben!” Silence. “What are you doing to him?!” Rey shouted as he tried unsuccessfully to get out from under the guards.

 

Minutes passed underwater for Benoni.  He was close to the limits of his excess lung capacity, beginning to feel a burning in his chest, when Antoine said “Enough. Let him up.”

 

As the guards pulled Benoni clear of the water, Antoine declared “A witch! None would endure that without a struggle nor go so long without a breath unless by some magic. And now we will see if Reynard is also a witch, or merely enchanted by the witch.”

 

As Antoine’s men brought Reynard to the barrel, Benoni struggled against those who held him back and cried out, “No, he is neither witch nor enchanted! I told you! He only came to me to have his wound tended!”

 

Reynard looked towards Benoni with first a moment’s relief at the mere sight of him, and then consternation at his drenched appearance; now Rey understood all too well the purpose of the barrel. And in the next moment, Antoine himself was pushing Rey’s head down towards the surface of the water as Rey took a quick panicked breath and began to struggle.

 

Not more than a minute underwater, and Rey could no longer hold back the urgency to exhale. After that, thrashing ever more vigorously, he fought against his tormentors and against the urge to inhale. Finally he could no longer hold off inhalation -- inhaled water, coughed out water, and inhaled water again. Larynx spasming shut, searing chest pain, movements becoming more and more feeble, then loss of consciousness, no more attempts to breathe, near drowned.

 

The men who had held Rey in place so forcefully for those deadly moments now casually dropped his unbreathing body alongside the barrel. “Not a witch then,” pronounced Antoine, “and not a problem anymore either.”

 

With a surge of adrenaline, Benoni broke free from the guards and fell to his knees beside Reynard.   _Oh God no_ he whispered aloud when he saw that there was no rise-and-fall to Rey’s chest.   _Oh please, let there still be time_ he thought -- and then his trembling hand at the side of Rey’s throat felt a faint pulse.

 

Antoine and his men stood still in amazement at the sight as Benoni quickly straightened out Rey’s crumpled form, laying him flat on his back and with chin tilted up, and attempted to give him the breath of life as in midwifery he had done for certain newborns.

 

“He’s kissing a dead man!” hissed one of the guards.

 

“What terrible magic will this make?” murmured another.

 

Benoni’s lips were pressed in desperation and hope against Reynard’s lips, breathing into him … once … again … and again … and then Rey gasped, coughing out water and attempting to sit up, flailing as if he were still drowning.

 

“Rey! Rey! REY! I’ve got you. Easy now. I’ve got you.”

 

Antoine and his soldiers, believing they had seen a witch perform a resurrection, hastened out of the cell. Slamming home the three iron bolts, Antoine called back “The Bishop’s men shall hear of this!”

 

“What was that, Ben? That thing you were doing with your mouth?”

~*~

 

De Chesney came to Benoni and Reynard soon thereafter.  Appalled at what Antoine had made of the conversation about “precautions,” he spoke to the prisoners in a voice stripped of its usual sarcasm and bluster.                                                                                                                                                                                      

 

“How are you doing?” he asked.

 

Reynard laughed harshly, and started coughing. How was he doing? How did the man think?

 

“Thirsty,” he said -- because now he was very thirsty indeed. He produced a second harsh laugh at the irony of thirst after near-drowning.  “But take care of Ben first. The beating they gave him!”

 

“Alright,” murmured Ben. “I’m alright.…”

 

“S’wounds, stop saying that. Look at him, Sheriff. Look what they did.”

 

De Chesney stepped to the door, and shouted. “Is there any reason this man is naked? Get him some blankets for God’s sake.” Outside, some nameless guard scurried to obey. Reynard’s hearing seemed heightened in compensation for what he could not see; he could clearly hear the footsteps scraping the stone corridor. “And a torch,” de Chesney shouted. “I want to see what we’ve got here.”

 

Once provided with light and blankets he stepped further inside, then looked down as his foot scuffed the salt barrier near the door. “Barbarians,” he muttered, and went over to look at Benoni first. Reynard watched anxiously as de Chesney examined his partner, and was reminded  by the Sheriff’s thoroughness that de Chesney had served on the field of battle. “Open your eyes, Son,” he said, wrapping Benoni in the blanket. Reynard held his breath while his superior officer scrutinized Benoni. Finally he grunted. “They hurt you bad, but no bones broken.” He turned to Reynard then with a serious expression. “And you?”

 

“Just bruised, Sir.”

 

De Chesney spoke to the guard who was stationed outside the door. “Bring me some water. And bandages, poultices.”

 

“Sir, are you sure that –”

 

“That’s an order,” de Chesney interrupted, his voice like ice. “Now, Soldier.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” the soldier muttered, and vanished, returning with a metal jug. De Chesney pressed it up to Benoni’s lips; Benoni coughed, then started swallowing. He stopped abruptly. “Rey,” he said. “Give some to Rey.”

 

“Don’t worry, Son, there’s plenty to go round.”

 

Benoni pushed the jug away, and looked at de Chesney with more focus in his gaze. “Tell me what’s happening. I understand…” he paused and swallowed. “I understand I’ve been accused of witchcraft?”

 

“Yes, I’m sorry, Son. That accusation has been made.”

 

“Let me guess.” Reynard took the water and drank before continuing. “Sigewif, and then Antoine.”

 

“That would be a correct assessment. For what it’s worth, Soldier -- Reynard -- you yourself are free of any such accusation. It has been decided in your absence that you were put under an enchantment by our good hermit here.”

 

“Who decided?”

 

“There has been a….” de Chesney trailed off, at a loss for words, and focussed on binding Benoni’s head-wound instead.

 

“An _in camera_ investigation into the charges,” Benoni continued for him. “I believe that is the procedure -- a preliminary examination of the evidence from which the accused and the public are withheld, while the ecclesiastic and civil authorities gather testimonies.”

 

 

“Nothing too badly wrong with your head, is there?” De Chesney barked a laugh. Benoni gave a rueful smile.

 

“It is feeling somewhat better, Sir.”

 

“So … what happened? At this trial thing? What did they say?” Reynard tried to hide his distress, but he wasn’t doing a good job of it. It oozed from every pore.

 

“Well, opinion is divided, so there will most likely be a formal trial. You have only to accuse the Hermit of having enchanted you, and you’ll be free to go --”

 

“I’d sooner go to Hell.”

 

“I thought you’d say something like that. Well, in that case there are two possibilities for you. One is that they attempt to exorcise you, the other is that they try you as a willing accomplicce, and in that case you’ll be subject to the same judgement as Benoni.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“I don’t know yet. The Church, as you know, won’t want to sully its hands with blood, so they leave the punishment up to the civil authorities --”

 

“Which is you, Sir.”

 

“Yes, Soldier. Which is me.”

 

“I don’t suppose you plan on hanging us, do you?”

 

“It seems unlikely. Why? Do you plan to do anything to provoke me?”

 

Reynard managed a laugh. “No, Sir.”

 

“Good. Now, we have two options. One is that we go for trial, with all the complications that will bring. Hermit, you will be accused of colluding with the Jews in the death of William --”

 

“But that’s ridiculous!”

 

“Soldier, let me speak. Hermit, the evidence against you is as follows. Several of my soldiers are prepared to swear that they saw you bring Reynard here back from the dead, and others are prepared to swear that they saw you transform yourself from a wolf to a man. They claim that while you were a wolf you attacked one of them.”

 

“That’s a --”

 

“Yes, obviously, a pile of horse manure. The soldier who was actually attacked tells a very different tale, in which you were the one to get the wolf off him. Unfortunately, he’s considered -- you guessed it -- to have been bewitched.”

 

“Oh Lord in heaven,” groaned Reynard.

 

“Further to your miraculous abilities to resurrect the dead and to turn into animals, several banned books have been found in your hut. The soldiers did not dare touch them, thinking they were books of sorcery. However, I have enough Latin to recognise Scripture when I see it. Where did you get them?”

 

“I copied them from memory … are my books safe?”

 

“The Bishop has reclaimed them for the Church.” Benoni groaned. “Believe me, it could be worse. Your old Abbot wanted to burn them. He claims that you were always a difficult child, constantly reading when you should have been saying your prayers. He says he’s not surprised to learn you are a witch.”

 

Benoni huffed. There was a world of irritation in that noise. “I should have expected that from him. Is there any other ‘evidence’ against me?”

 

“Apparently you advised one of the grooms against entering his daughter into a convent. The same groom tells me that you talked to the horses, and the horses talked back.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Needless to say, the man is a buffoon, and is even as we speak out drinking on his celebrity as the owner of a talking horse.” De Chesney sighed. “So. One option is you go to trial and try to point out how stupid these people are. You’d think it would be easy, but we have the grieving aunt of the murdered martyr to contend with.”

 

“Sigewif.”

 

“Sigewif.” De Chesney looked carefully at Benoni. “She really seems to want you dead.”

 

“I got that impression, Sir.” Benoni’s tone was mild, but Reynard could feel the weight of hurt behind it.

 

“You are going to have to face her, if you stand trial. And she has popular support.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And there is every chance that she will whip up hatred against you, as she has done against the Jews. If the worst comes to the worst, you, and even my soldier, could be accused of murder by sorcery, in which case I would have no choice but to hang you.”

 

Benoni sighed. “If it was just me….”

 

“Wait … is there another choice?” Reynard queried.

 

“Yes.” De Chesney looked uncomfortable. “You could plead guilty to the lesser charge of witchcraft, and accept a lesser punishment.”

 

Reynard exploded. “No! We’re not witches. If anything that Sigewif woman is, she’s the one who’s got the whole city believing a pack of lies. She’s protecting the killer, Clowen -- we know that. We _know_ that -- how come she gets away with it? How come Clowen gets away with it?”

 

“Rey, Rey, Rey, REY….”

 

“WHAT?” Reynard sucked in breath, and squeezed his eyes shut. He hated this, hated it. Damn…. He glanced apologetically at Benoni. He was sitting huddled up in the Sherriff’s blanket, gazing at him through bruised eyes. Reynard blinked tears from his own eyes, shocked at his lack of control, and his beloved’s vulnerability.

 

“Normally I would be the last to suggest deception -- but if it’s the only way to save your life, then what choice do we have?”

 

“My life? What about yours?”

 

“It isn’t worth much without you.”

 

De Chesney threw his hands in the air. “I didn’t hear that,” he declared, and walked to the far side of the room, muttering.

 

“Ben -- I just hate to see her win.”

 

“She won’t win. Clowen won’t win. They may seem to have gotten away with murder, but as I said to you before, there is Justice in the world, and Justice sees. Somehow, I don’t know how, the Right will be maintained.”

 

Reynard fell silent for a moment. “See….” he leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “If you can believe that, if you can really believe it, then maybe it doesn’t matter I don’t believe it too. You can believe it for both of us, can’t you?”

 

“Yes. Yes, Rey, I can.”

~*~

 

And so, Reynard and Benoni stood before the Ecclesiastical Court, and confessed to witchcraft. The Bishop got to his feet, with what may have been a look of regret in his eyes.

 

Reynard shuddered. He didn’t understand what the Bishop was saying, but Benoni had told him what to expect. So he understood it as the Bishop slammed shut the book of the Gospels, signalling that they were shut out of the book of life. He understood it as the bell rang for the dead, and he understood it when the Bishop snuffed out the candle.

 

And he understood one word.

 

Anathema.

 

Reynard felt a shock go through him, from head to foot -- he hadn’t expected to be so affected by it, since he’d never really believed. Benoni on the other hand … looked relieved. He turned and smiled reassurance at Reynard, then turned back to the Court and bowed his head, awaiting sentencing.

 

De Chesney stood, and cleared his throat. “As witchcraft is a civil offense, it has fallen to me to pass sentence on these men. It is my judgement that they be banished from this country.” There was a muttering from the Abbot, and de Chesney glared at him before continuing. “There is no evidence that they have used said witchcraft to work spells against the common good, and therefore it is my judgement that they be banished from this country  to sojourn in other lands and never return here.”

 

Banished. That sounded a hell of a lot better than excommunicated.

 

“Thank you,” Benoni said, flawlessly polite to the end. He bowed slightly to the Bishop, then reached out his hand and squeezed Reynard’s. Then he turned and kissed Reynard lightly on the lips. It didn’t matter who thought they were _argr_ now -- they were anathema, and could do as they pleased.

 

 ** _Hautes_** - ** _Pyrénées_** ** _, France_**

**_4th of April, 1154_ **

**_Easter Sunday_ **

****

****

Benoni had always liked to sleep outside on Easter Eve, to awaken in full view of the Easter sunrise.  In the Pyrénées he woke to the sounds of birdsong and of small creatures rustling through the woods around the clearing. He woke with Reynard curled against him under their shared fleece. Although they were getting older, the hard work and high altitudes kept them strong, and it was no real hardship for them to sleep out in the open.

 

Beside him, Reynard wriggled and then muttered sleepily. “Ben,” he groaned. “Put out the lamp.”

 

“That’s the sun.”

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

“He is Risen.”

 

“Huh? Oh. Right.”

 

Benoni kissed Reynard’s forehead. “Time to get up, my love.”

 

Rey smiled and quoted something he had learned from Benoni :  “My beloved speaks and says to me arise my love, my fair one, and come away, for now the winter is past.”

 

Benoni smiled, too. It was going to be a beautiful day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“No matter what you’ve lost, be it a home, a love, a friend

… rise again.

Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain

… rise again.”

 

\-- from _The Mary Ellen Carter_ by Stan Rogers

 

**_221 Racine_ **

**_Chicago, Illinois, USA_ **

**_Springtime, 1997_ **

****

Many lifetimes later, the soul who had been, amongst other things, a Norman Hermit, and now a Canadian Mountie, stood in the fire-ravaged ruins of his apartment building. (“No matter what you’ve lost, be it a home, a love, a friend….”)

**_27 th Precinct_ **

**_Chicago Police Department_ **

**_Later that day_ **

****

In that same many lifetimes later, the soul who had been, amongst other things, a Saxon Soldier, and now a Chicago Police Detective, hugged the Mountie with a glad exclamation in the first moment that they met. (“Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain….”)

What was it that both souls experienced then, something apart from the Detective’s pretense and the Mountie’s confusion? There was something of familiarity amidst all the strangeness, something of found amidst all the lost. (“Rise again!”)

 


End file.
